PARIS - Chapter III
Henriette Receives the Visit of M. d'Antoine I Accompany Her as Far
as Geneva and Then I Lose Her--I Cross the St. Bernard, and Return
to Parma--A Letter from Henriette--My Despair De La Haye Becomes
Attached to Me--Unpleasant Adventure with an Actress and Its
Consequences--I Turn a Thorough Bigot--Bavois--I Mystify a Bragging
Officer.
As soon as I had reached our apartment, my heart bursting with
anxiety, I repeated to Henriette every word spoken by M. d'Antoine,
and delivered his letter which contained four pages of writing. She
read it attentively with visible emotion, and then she said,
"Dearest friend, do not be offended, but the honour of two families
does not allow of my imparting to you the contents of this letter. I
am compelled to receive M. d'Antoine, who represents himself as being
one of my relatives."
"Ah!" I exclaimed, "this is the beginning of the end! What a
dreadful thought! I am near the end of a felicity which was too
great to last! Wretch that I have been! Why did I tarry so long in
Parma? What fatal blindness! Of all the cities in the whole world,
except France, Parma was the only one I had to fear, and it is here
that I have brought you, when I could have taken you anywhere else,
for you had no will but mine! I am all the more guilty that you
never concealed your fears from me. Why did I introduce that fatal
Dubois here? Ought I not to have guessed that his curiosity would
sooner or later prove injurious to us? And yet I cannot condemn that
curiosity, for it is, alas! a natural feeling. I can only accuse all
the perfections which Heaven has bestowed upon you!--perfections
which have caused my happiness, and which will plunge me in an abyss
of despair, for, alas! I foresee a future of fearful misery."
"I entreat you, dearest, to foresee nothing, and to calm yourself.
Let us avail ourselves of all our reason in order to prove ourselves
superior to circumstances, whatever they may be. I cannot answer
this letter, but you must write to M. d'Antoine to call here tomorrow
and to send up his name."
"Alas! you compel me to perform a painful task."
"You are my best, my only friend; I demand nothing, I impose no task
upon you, but can you refuse me?"
"No, never, no matter what you ask. Dispose of me, I am yours in
life and death."
"I knew what you would answer. You must be with me when M.
d'Antoine calls, but after a few minutes given to etiquette, will you
find some pretext to go to your room, and leave us alone?
M. d'Antoine knows all my history; he knows in what I have done
wrong, in what I have been right; as a man of honour, as my relative,
he must shelter me from all affront. He shall not do anything
against my will, and if he attempts to deviate from the conditions I
will dictate to him, I will refuse to go to France, I will follow you
anywhere, and devote to you the remainder of my life. Yet, my
darling, recollect that some fatal circumstances may compel us to
consider our separation as the wisest course to adopt, that we must
husband all our courage to adopt it, if necessary, and to endeavour
not to be too unhappy.
Have confidence in me, and be quite certain that I shall take care to
reserve for myself the small portion of happiness which I can be
allowed to enjoy without the man who alone has won all my devoted
love. You will have, I trust, and I expect it from your generous
soul, the same care of your future, and I feel certain that you must
succeed. In the mean time, let us drive away all the sad forebodings
which might darken the hours we have yet before us."
"Ah! why did we not go away immediately after we had met that
accursed favourite of the Infante!"
"We might have made matters much worse; for in that case
M. d'Antoine might have made up his mind to give my family a proof of
his zeal by instituting a search to discover our place of residence,
and I should then have been exposed to violent proceedings which you
would not have endured. It would have been fatal to both of us."
I did everything she asked me. From that moment our love became sad,
and sadness is a disease which gives the death-blow to affection. We
would often remain a whole hour opposite each other without
exchanging a single word, and our sighs would be heard whatever we
did to hush them.
The next day, when M. d'Antoine called, I followed exactly the
instructions she had given me, and for six mortal hours I remained
alone, pretending to write.
The door of my room was open, and a large looking-glass allowed us to
see each other. They spent those six hours in writing, occasionally
stopping to talk of I do not know what, but their conversation was
evidently a decisive one. The reader can easily realize how much I
suffered during that long torture, for I could expect nothing but the
total wreck of my happiness.
As soon as the terrible M. d'Antoine had taken leave of her,
Henriette came to me, and observing that her eyes were red I heaved a
deep sigh, but she tried to smile.
"Shall we go away to-morrow, dearest?"
"Oh! yes, I am ready. Where do you wish me to take you?"
"Anywhere you like, but we must be here in a fortnight."
"Here! Oh, fatal illusion!"
"Alas! it is so. I have promised to be here to receive the answer to
a letter I have just written. We have no violent proceedings to
fear, but I cannot bear to remain in Parma."
"Ah! I curse the hour which brought us to this city. Would you like
to go to Milan?"
"Yes."
"As we are unfortunately compelled to come back, we may as well take
with us Caudagna and his sister."
"As you please."
"Let me arrange everything. I will order a carriage for them, and
they will take charge of your violoncello. Do you not think that you
ought to let M. d'Antoine know where we are going?"
"No, it seems to me, on the contrary, that I need not account to him
for any of my proceedings. So much the worse for him if he should,
even for one moment, doubt my word."
The next morning, we left Parma, taking only what we wanted for an
absence of a fortnight. We arrived in Milan without accident, but
both very sad, and we spent the following fifteen days in constant
tete-a-tete, without speaking to anyone, except the landlord of the
hotel and to a dressmaker. I presented my beloved Henriette with a
magnificent pelisse made of lynx fur--a present which she prized
highly.
Out of delicacy, she had never enquired about my means, and I felt
grateful to her for that reserve. I was very careful to conceal from
her the fact that my purse was getting very light. When we came back
to Parma I had only three or four hundred sequins.
The day after our return M. d'Antoine invited himself to dine with
us, and after we had drunk coffee, I left him alone with Henriette.
Their interview was as long as the first, and our separation was
decided. She informed me of it, immediately after the departure of
M. d'Antoine, and for a long time we remained folded in each other's
arms, silent, and blending our bitter tears.
"When shall I have to part from you, my beloved, alas! too much
beloved one?"
"Be calm, dearest, only when we reach Geneva, whither you are going
to accompany me. Will you try to find me a respectable maid by
to-morrow? She will accompany me from Geneva to the place where I am
bound to go."
"Oh! then, we shall spend a few days more together! I know no one
but Dubois whom I could trust to procure a good femme-de-chambre;
only I do not want him to learn from her what you might not wish him
to know."
"That will not be the case, for I will take another maid as soon as I
am in France."
Three days afterwards, Dubois, who had gladly undertaken the
commission, presented to Henriette a woman already somewhat advanced
in years, pretty well dressed and respectable-looking, who, being
poor, was glad of an opportunity of going back to France, her native
country. Her husband, an old military officer, had died a few months
before, leaving her totally unprovided for. Henriette engaged her,
and told her to keep herself ready to start whenever M. Dubois should
give her notice. The day before the one fixed for our departure, M.
d'Antoine dined with us, and, before taking leave of us, he gave
Henriette a sealed letter for Geneva.
We left Parma late in the evening, and stopped only two hours in
Turin, in order to engage a manservant whose services we required as
far as Geneva. The next day we ascended Mont Cenis in sedan-chairs,
and we descended to the Novalaise in mountain-sledges. On the fifth
day we reached Geneva, and we put up at the Hotel des Balances. The
next morning, Henriette gave me a letter for the banker Tronchin,
who, when he had read it, told me that he would call himself at the
hotel, and bring me one thousand louis d'or.
I came back and we sat down to dinner. We had not finished our meal
when the banker was announced. He had brought the thousand louis
d'or, and told Henriette that he would give her two men whom he could
recommend in every way.
She answered that she would leave Geneva as soon as she had the
carriage which he was to provide for her, according to the letter I
had delivered to him. He promised that everything would be ready for
the following day, and he left us. It was indeed a terrible moment!
Grief almost benumbed us both. We remained motionless, speechless,
wrapped up in the most profound despair.
I broke that sad silence to tell her that the carriage which M.
Tronchin would provide could not possibly be as comfortable and as
safe as mine, and I entreated her to take it, assuring her that by
accepting it she would give me a last proof of her affection.
"I will take in exchange, my dearest love, the carriage sent by the
banker."
"I accept the change, darling," she answered, "it will be a great
consolation to possess something which has belonged to you."
As she said these words, she slipped in my pocket five rolls
containing each one hundred louis d'or--a slight consolation for my
heart, which was almost broken by our cruel separation! During the
last twenty-four hours we could boast of no other eloquence but that
which finds expression in tears, in sobs, and in those hackneyed but
energetic exclamations, which two happy lovers are sure to address to
reason, when in its sternness it compels them to part from one
another in the very height of their felicity. Henriette did not
endeavour to lure me with any hope for the future, in order to allay
my sorrow! Far from that, she said to me,
"Once we are parted by fate, my best and only friend, never enquire
after me, and, should chance throw you in my way, do not appear to
know me."
She gave me a letter for M. d'Antoine, without asking me whether I
intended to go back to Parma, but, even if such had not been my
intention, I should have determined at once upon returning to that
city. She likewise entreated me not to leave Geneva until I had
received a letter which she promised to, write to me from the first
stage on her journey. She started at day-break, having with her a
maid, a footman on the box of the carriage, and being preceded by a
courier on horseback. I followed her with my eyes as long as I
could, see her carriage, and I was still standing on the same spot
long after my eyes had lost sight of it. All my thoughts were
wrapped up in the beloved object I had lost for ever. The world was
a blank!
I went back to my room, ordered the waiter not to disturb me until
the return of the horses which had drawn Henriette's carriage, and I
lay down on my bed in the hope that sleep would for a time silence a
grief which tears could not drown.
The postillion who had driven Henriette did not return till the next
day; he had gone as far as Chatillon. He brought me a letter in
which I found one single word: Adieu! He told me that they had
reached Chatillon without accident, and that the lady had immediately
continued her journey towards Lyons. As I could not leave Geneva
until the following day, I spent alone in my room some of the most
melancholy hours of my life. I saw on one of the panes of glass of a
window these words which she had traced with the point of a diamond I
had given her: "You will forget Henriette." That prophecy was not
likely to afford me any consolation. But had she attached its full
meaning to the word "forget?" No; she could only mean that time
would at last heal the deep wounds of my heart, and she ought not to
have made it deeper by leaving behind her those words which sounded
like a reproach. No, I have not forgotten her, for even now, when my
head is covered with white hair, the recollection of her is still a
source of happiness for my heart! When I think that in my old age I
derive happiness only from my recollections of the past, I find that
my long life must have counted more bright than dark days, and
offering my thanks to God, the Giver of all, I congratulate myself,
and confess that life is a great blessing.
The next day I set off again for Italy with a servant recommended by
M. Tronchin, and although the season was not favourable I took the
road over Mont St. Bernard, which I crossed in three days, with seven
mules carrying me, my servant, my luggage, and the carriage sent by
the banker to the beloved woman now for ever lost to me. One of the
advantages of a great sorrow is that nothing else seems painful. It
is a sort of despair which is not without some sweetness. During
that journey I never felt either hunger or thirst, or the cold which
is so intense in that part of the Alps that the whole of nature seems
to turn to ice, or the fatigue inseparable from such a difficult and
dangerous journey.
I arrived in Parma in pretty good health, and took up my quarters at
a small inn, in the hope that in such a place I should not meet any
acquaintance of mine. But I was much disappointed, for I found in
that inn M. de la Haye, who had a room next to mine. Surprised at
seeing me, he paid me a long compliment, trying to make me speak, but
I eluded his curiosity by telling him that I was tired, and that we
would see each other again.
On the following day I called upon M. d'Antoine, and delivered the
letter which Henriette had written to him. He opened it in my
presence, and finding another to my address enclosed in his, he
handed it to me without reading it, although it was not sealed.
Thinking, however, that it might have been Henriette's intention that
he should read it because it was open, he asked my permission to do
so, which I granted with pleasure as soon as I had myself perused it.
He handed it back to me after he had read it, telling me very
feelingly that I could in everything rely upon him and upon his
influence and credit.
Here is Henriette's letter
'It is I, dearest and best friend, who have been compelled to abandon
you, but do not let your grief be increased by any thought of my
sorrow. Let us be wise enough to suppose that we have had a happy
dream, and not to complain of destiny, for never did so beautiful a
dream last so long! Let us be proud of the consciousness that for
three months we gave one another the most perfect felicity. Few
human beings can boast of so much! Let us swear never to forget one
another, and to often remember the happy hours of our love, in order
to renew them in our souls, which, although divided, will enjoy them
as acutely as if our hearts were beating one against the other. Do
not make any enquiries about me, and if chance should let you know
who I am, forget it for ever. I feel certain that you will be glad
to hear that I have arranged my affairs so well that I shall, for the
remainder of my life, be as happy as I can possibly be without you,
dear friend, by my side. I do not know who you are, but I am certain
that no one in the world knows you better than I do. I shall not
have another lover as long as I live, but I do not wish you to
imitate me. On the contrary I hope that you will love again, and I
trust that a good fairy will bring along your path another Henriette.
Farewell . . . farewell."
......................
I met that adorable woman fifteen years later; the reader will see
where and how, when we come to that period of my life.
......................
I went back to my room, careless of the future, broken down by the
deepest of sorrows, I locked myself in, and went to bed. I felt so
low in spirits that I was stunned. Life was not a burden, but only
because I did not give a thought to life. In fact I was in a state
of complete apathy, moral and physical. Six years later I found
myself in a similar predicament, but that time love was not the cause
of my sorrow; it was the horrible and too famous prison of The Leads,
in Venice.
I was not much better either in 1768, when I was lodged in the prison
of Buen Retiro, in Madrid, but I must not anticipate events.
At the end of twenty-four hours, my exhaustion was very great, but I
did not find the sensation disagreeable, and, in the state of mind in
which I was then, I was pleased with the idea that, by increasing,
that weakness would at last kill me. I was delighted to see that no
one disturbed me to offer me some food, and I congratulated myself
upon having dismissed my servant. Twenty-four more hours passed by,
and my weakness became complete inanition.
I was in that state when De la Haye knocked at my door. I would not
have answered if he had not said that someone insisted upon seeing
me. I got out of bed, and, scarcely able to stand, I opened my door,
after which I got into bed again.
"There is a stranger here," he said, "who, being in want of a
carriage, offers to buy yours"
"I do not want to sell it."
"Excuse me if I have disturbed you, but you look ill."
"Yes, I wish to be left alone."
"What is the matter with you?"
Coming nearer my bed, he took my hand, and found my pulse extremely
low and weak.
"What did you eat yesterday?"
"I have eaten nothing, thank God I for two days."
Guessing the real state of things, De la Haye became anxious, and
entreated me to take some broth. He threw so much kindness, so much
unction, into his entreaties that, through weakness and weariness, I
allowed myself to be persuaded. Then, without ever mentioning the
name of Henriette, he treated me to a sermon upon the life to come,
upon the vanity of the things of this life which we are foolish
enough to prefer, and upon the necessity of respecting our existence,
which does not belong to us.
I was listening without answering one word, but, after all, I was
listening, and De la Haye, perceiving his advantage, would not leave
me, and ordered dinner. I had neither the will nor the strength to
resist, and when the dinner was served, I ate something. Then De la
Have saw that he had conquered, and for the remainder of the day
devoted himself to amusing me by his cheerful conversation.
The next day the tables were turned, for it was I who invited him to
keep me company and to dine with me. It seemed to me that I had not
lost a particle of my sadness, but life appeared to me once more
preferable to death, and, thinking that I was indebted to him for the
preservation of my life, I made a great friend of him. My readers
will see presently that my affection for him went very far, and they
will, like me, marvel at the cause of that friendship, and at the
means through which it was brought about.
Three or four days afterwards, Dubois, who had been informed of
everything by De la Haye, called on me, and persuaded me to go out.
I went to the theatre, where I made the acquaintance of several
Corsican officers, who had served in France, in the Royal Italian
regiment. I also met a young man from Sicily, named Paterno, the
wildest and most heedless fellow it was possible to see. He was in
love with an actress who made a fool of him. He amused me with the
enumeration of all her adorable qualities, and of all the cruelties
she was practising upon him, for, although she received him at all
hours, she repulsed him harshly whenever he tried to steal the
slightest favour. In the mean time, she ruined him by making him pay
constantly for excellent dinners and suppers, which were eaten by her
family, but which did not advance him one inch towards the fulfilment
of his wishes.
He succeeded at last in exciting my curiosity. I examined the
actress on the stage, and finding that she was not without beauty I
expressed a wish to know her. Paterno was delighted to introduce me
to her.
I found that she was of tolerably easy virtue, and, knowing that she
was very far from rolling in riches, I had no doubt that fifteen or
twenty sequins would be quite sufficient to make her compliant. I
communicated my thoughts to Paterno, but he laughed and told me that,
if I dared to make such a proposition to her, she would certainly
shut her door against me. He named several officers whom she had
refused to receive again, because they had made similar offers.
"Yet," added the young man, "I wish you would make the attempt, and
tell me the result candidly."
I felt piqued, and promised to do it.
I paid her a visit in her dressing-room at the theatre, and as she
happened during our conversation to praise the beauty of my watch, I
told her that she could easily obtain possession of it, and I said at
what price. She answered, according to the catechism of her
profession, that an honourable man had no right to make such an offer
to a respectable girl.
"I offer only one ducat," said I, "to those who are not respectable."
And I left her.
When I told Paterno what had occurred, he fairly jumped for joy, but
I knew what to think of it all, for 'cosi sono tutte', and in spite
of all his entreaties, I declined to be present at his suppers, which
were far from amusing, and gave the family of the actress an
opportunity of laughing at the poor fool who was paying for them.
Seven or eight days afterwards, Paterno told me that the actress had
related the affair to him exactly in the same words which I had used,
and she had added that, if I had ceased my visits, it was only
because I was afraid of her taking me at my word in case I should
renew my proposal. I commissioned him to tell her that I would pay
her another visit, not to renew my offer, but to shew my contempt for
any proposal she might make me herself.
The heedless fellow fulfilled his commission so well that the
actress, feeling insulted, told him that she dared me to call on her.
Perfectly determined to shew that I despised her, I went to her
dressing-room the same evening, after the second act of a play in
which she had not to appear again. She dismissed those who were with
her, saying that she wanted to speak with me, and, after she had
bolted the door, she sat down gracefully on my knees, asking me
whether it was true that I despised her so much.
In such a position a man has not the courage to insult a woman, and,
instead of answering, I set to work at once, without meeting even
with that show of resistance which sharpens the appetite. In spite
of that, dupe as I always was of a feeling truly absurd when an
intelligent man has to deal with such creatures, I gave her twenty
sequins, and I confess that it was paying dearly for very smarting
regrets. We both laughed at the stupidity of Paterno, who did not
seem to know how such challenges generally end.
I saw the unlucky son of Sicily the next morning, and I told him
that, having found the actress very dull, I would not see her again.
Such was truly my intention, but a very important reason, which
nature took care to explain to me three days afterwards, compelled me
to keep my word through a much more serious motive than a simple
dislike for the woman.
However, although I was deeply grieved to find myself in such a
disgraceful position, I did not think I had any right to complain.
On the contrary, I considered that my misfortune to be a just and
well-deserved punishment for having abandoned myself to a Lais, after
I had enjoyed the felicity of possessing a woman like Henriette.
My disease was not a case within the province of empirics, and I
bethought myself of confiding in M. de is Haye who was then dining
every day with me, and made no mystery of his poverty. He placed me
in the hands of a skilful surgeon, who was at the same time a
dentist. He recognized certain symptoms which made it a necessity to
sacrifice me to the god Mercury, and that treatment, owing to the
season of the year, compelled me to keep my room for six weeks. It
was during the winter of 1749.
While I was thus curing myself of an ugly disease, De la Haye
inoculated me with another as bad, perhaps even worse, which I should
never have thought myself susceptible of catching. This Fleming, who
left me only for one hour in the morning, to go--at least he said so-
-to church to perform his devotions, made a bigot of me! And to such
an extent, that I agreed with him that I was indeed fortunate to have
caught a disease which was the origin of the faith now taking
possession of my soul. I would thank God fervently and with the most
complete conviction for having employed Mercury to lead my mind,
until then wrapped in darkness, to the pure light of holy truth!
There is no doubt that such an extraordinary change in my reasoning
system was the result of the exhaustion brought on by the mercury.
That impure and always injurious metal had weakened my mind to such
an extent that I had become almost besotted, and I fancied that until
then my judgment had been insane. The result was that, in my newly
acquired wisdom, I took the resolution of leading a totally different
sort of life in future. De la Haye would often cry for joy when he
saw me shedding tears caused by the contrition which he had had the
wonderful cleverness to sow in my poor sickly soul. He would talk to
me of paradise and the other world, just as if he had visited them in
person, and I never laughed at him! He had accustomed me to renounce
my reason; now to renounce that divine faculty a man must no longer
be conscious of its value, he must have become an idiot. The reader
may judge of the state to which I was reduced by the following
specimen. One day, De la Haye said to me:
"It is not known whether God created the world during the vernal
equinox or during the autumnal one."
"Creation being granted," I replied, in spite of the mercury, "such a
question is childish, for the seasons are relative, and differ in the
different quarters of the globe."
De la Haye reproached me with the heathenism of my ideas, told me
that I must abandon such impious reasonings.... and I gave way!
That man had been a Jesuit. He not only, however, refused to admit
it, but he would not even suffer anyone to mention it to him. This
is how he completed his work of seduction by telling me the history
of his life.
"After I had been educated in a good school," he said, "and had
devoted myself with some success to the arts and sciences, I was for
twenty years employed at the University of Paris. Afterwards I
served as an engineer in the army, and since that time I have
published several works anonymously, which are now in use in every
boys' school. Having given up the military service, and being poor,
I undertook and completed the education of several young men, some of
whom shine now in the world even more by their excellent conduct than
by their talents. My last pupil was the Marquis Botta. Now being
without employment I live, as you see, trusting in God's providence.
Four years ago, I made the acquaintance of Baron Bavois, from
Lausanne, son of General Bavois who commanded a regiment in the
service of the Duke of Modem, and afterwards was unfortunate enough
to make himself too conspicuous. The young baron, a Calvinist like
his father, did not like the idle life he was leading at home, and he
solicited me to undertake his education in order to fit him for a
military career. Delighted at the opportunity of cultivating his
fine natural disposition, I gave up everything to devote myself
entirely to my task. I soon discovered that, in the question of
faith, he knew himself to be in error, and that he remained a
Calvinist only out of respect to his family. When I had found out
his secret feelings on that head, I had no difficulty in proving to
him that his most important interests were involved in that question,
as his eternal salvation was at stake. Struck by the truth of my
words, he abandoned himself to my affection, and I took him to Rome,
where I presented him to the Pope, Benedict XIV., who, immediately
after the abjuration of my pupil got him a lieutenancy in the army of
the Duke of Modena. But the dear proselyte, who is only twenty-five
years of age, cannot live upon his pay of seven sequins a month, and
since his abjuration he has received nothing from his parents, who
are highly incensed at what they call his apostacy. He would find
himself compelled to go back to Lausanne, if I did not assist him.
But, alas! I am poor, and without employment, so I can only send him
the trifling sums which I can obtain from the few good Christians
with whom I am acquainted.
"My pupil, whose heart is full of gratitude, would be very glad to
know his benefactors, but they refuse to acquaint him with their
names, and they are right, because charity, in order to be
meritorious, must not partake of any feeling of vanity. Thank God,
I have no cause for such a feeling! I am but too happy to act as a
father towards a young saint, and to have had a share, as the humble
instrument of the Almighty, in the salvation of his soul. That
handsome and good young man trusts no one but me, and writes to me
regularly twice a week. I am too discreet to communicate his letters
to you, but, if you were to read them, they would make you weep for
sympathy. It is to him that I have sent the three gold pieces which
you gave me yesterday."
As he said the last words my converter rose, and went to the window
to dry his tears, I felt deeply moved, anal full of admiration for
the virtue of De la Haye and of his pupil, who, to save his soul, had
placed himself under the hard necessity of accepting alms. I cried
as well as the apostle, and in my dawning piety I told him that I
insisted not only upon remaining unknown to his pupil, but also upon
ignoring the amount of the sums he might take out of my purse to
forward to him, and I therefore begged that he would help himself
without rendering me any account. De la Haye embraced me warmly,
saying that, by following the precepts of the Gospel so well, I
should certainly win the kingdom of heaven.
The mind is sure to follow the body; it is a privilege enjoyed by
matter. With an empty stomach, I became a fanatic; and the hollow
made in my brain by the mercury became the home of enthusiasm.
Without mentioning it to De la Haye, I wrote to my three friends,
Messrs. Bragadin and company, several letters full of pathos
concerning my Tartufe and his pupil, and I managed to communicate my
fanaticism to them. You are aware, dear reader, that nothing is so
catching as the plague; now, fanaticism, no matter of what nature, is
only the plague of the human mind.
I made my friends to understand that the good of our society depended
upon the admission of these two virtuous individuals. I allowed them
to guess it, but, having myself became a Jesuit, I took care not to
say it openly. It would of course be better if such an idea appeared
to have emanated from those men, so simple, and at the same time so
truly virtuous. "It is God's will," I wrote to them (for deceit must
always take refuge under the protection of that sacred name), "that
you employ all your influence in Venice to find an honourable
position for M. de la Haye, and to promote the interests of young
M. Bavois in his profession."
M. de Bragadin answered that De la Haye could take up his quarters
with us in his palace, and that Bavois was to write to his protector,
the Pope, entreating His Holiness to recommend him to the ambassador
of Venice, who would then forward that recommendation to the Senate,
and that Bavois could, in that way, feel sure of good employment.
The affair of the Patriarchate of Aquileia was at that time under
discussion; the Republic of Venice was in possession of it as well as
the Emperor of Austria, who claimed the 'jus eligendi': the Pope
Benedict XIV. had been chosen as arbitrator, and as he had not yet
given his decision it was evident that the Republic would shew very
great deference to his recommendation.
While that important affair was enlisting all our sympathies, and
while they were expecting in Venice a letter stating the effect of
the Pope's recommendation, I was the hero of a comic adventure which,
for the sake of my readers, must not pass unnoticed.
At the beginning of April I was entirely cured of my last misfortune.
I had recovered all my usual vigour, and I accompanied my converter
to church every day, never missing a sermon. We likewise spent the
evening together at the caf‚, where we generally met a great many
officers. There was among them a Provencal who amused everybody with
his boasting and with the recital of the military exploits by which
he pretended to have distinguished himself in the service of several
countries, and principally in Spain. As he was truly a source of
amusement, everybody pretended to believe him in order to keep up the
game. One day as I was staring at him, he asked me whether I knew
him.
"By George, sir!"--I exclaimed, "know you! Why, did we not fight
side by side at the battle of Arbela?"
At those words everybody burst out laughing, but the boaster, nothing
daunted, said, with animation,
"Well, gentlemen, I do not see anything so very laughable in that. I
was at that battle, and therefore this gentleman might very well have
remarked me; in fact, I think I can recollect him."
And, continuing to speak to me, he named the regiment in which we
were brother officers. Of course we embraced one another,
congratulating each other upon the pleasure we both felt in meeting
again in Parma. After that truly comic joke I left the coffee-room
in the company of my inseparable preacher.
The next morning, as I was at breakfast with De la Haye, the boasting
Provencal entered my room without taking off his hat, and said,
"M. d'Arbela, I have something of importance to tell you; make haste
and follow me. If you are afraid, you may take anyone you please
with you. I am good for half a dozen men."
I left my chair, seized my pistols, and aimed at him.
"No one," I said, with decision, "has the right to come and disturb
me in my room; be off this minute, or I blow your brains out."
The fellow, drawing his sword, dared me to murder him, but at the
same moment De la Haye threw himself between us, stamping violently
on the floor. The landlord came up, and threatened the officer to
send for the police if he did not withdraw immediately.
He went away, saying that I had insulted him in public, and that he
would take care that the reparation I owed him should be as public as
the insult.
When he had gone, seeing that the affair might take a tragic turn, I
began to examine with De la Haye how it could be avoided, but we had
not long to puzzle our imagination, for in less than half an hour an
officer of the Infante of Parma presented himself, and requested me
to repair immediately to head-quarters, where M. de Bertolan,
Commander of Parma, wanted to speak to me.
I asked De la Haye to accompany me as a witness of what I had said in
the coffee-room as well as of what had taken place in my apartment.
I presented myself before the commander, whom I found surrounded by
several officers, and, among them, the bragging Provencal.
M. de Bertolan, who was a witty man, smiled when he saw me; then,
with a very serious countenance, he said to me,
"Sir, as you have made a laughing-stock of this officer in a public
place, it is but right that you should give him publicly the
satisfaction which he claims, and as commander of this city I find
myself bound in duty to ask you for that satisfaction in order to
settle the affair amicably."
"Commander," I answered, "I do not see why a satisfaction should be
offered to this gentleman, for it is not true that I have insulted
him by turning him into ridicule. I told him that I had seen him at
the battle of Arbela, and I could not have any doubt about it when he
said that he had been present at that battle, and that he knew me
again."
"Yes," interrupted the officer, "but I heard Rodela and not Arbela,
and everybody knows that I fought at Rodela. But you said Arbela,
and certainly with the intention of laughing at me, since that battle
has been fought more than two thousand years ago, while the battle of
Rodela in Africa took place in our time, and I was there under the
orders of the Duke de Mortemar."
"In the first place, sir, you have no right to judge of my
intentions, but I do not dispute your having been present at Rodela,
since you say so; but in that case the tables are turned, and now I
demand a reparation from you if you dare discredit my having been at
Arbela. I certainly did not serve under the Duke de Mortemar,
because he was not there, at least to my knowledge, but I was aid-de-
camp of Parmenion, and I was wounded under his eyes. If you were to
ask me to shew you the scar, I could not satisfy you, for you must
understand that the body I had at that time does not exist any
longer, and in my present bodily envelope I am only twenty-three
years old."
"All this seems to me sheer madness, but, at all events, I have
witnesses to prove that you have been laughing at me, for you stated
that you had seen me at that battle, and, by the powers! it is not
possible, because I was not there. At all events, I demand
satisfaction."
"So do I, and we have equal rights, if mine are not even better than
yours, for your witnesses are likewise mine, and these gentlemen will
assert that you said that you had seen me at Rodela, and, by the
powers! it is not possible, for I was not there."
"Well, I may have made a mistake."
"So may I, and therefore we have no longer any claim against one
another."
The commander, who was biting his lips to restrain his mirth, said to
him,
"My dear sir, I do not see that you have the slightest right to
demand satisfaction, since this gentleman confesses, like you, that
he might have been mistaken."
"But," remarked the officer, "is it credible that he was at the
battle of Arbela?"
"This gentleman leaves you free to believe or not to believe, and he
is at liberty to assert that he was there until you can prove the
contrary. Do you wish to deny it to make him draw his sword?"
"God forbid! I would rather consider the affair ended."
"Well, gentlemen," said the commander, "I have but one more duty to
perform, and it is to advise you to embrace one another like two
honest men."
We followed the advice with great pleasure.
The next day, the Provencal, rather crestfallen, came to share my
dinner, and I gave him a friendly welcome. Thus was ended that comic
adventure, to the great satisfaction of M. de la Haye.
