PARIS - Chapter VIII
My Broil With Parisian Justice--Mdlle. Vesian
The youngest daughter of my landlady, Mdlle. Quinson, a young girl
between fifteen and sixteen years of age, was in the habit of often
coming to my room without being called. It was not long before I
discovered that she was in love with me, and I should have thought
myself ridiculous if I had been cruel to a young brunette who was
piquant, lively, amiable, and had a most delightful voice.
During the first four or five months nothing but childish trifles
took place between us; but one night, coming home very late and
finding her fast asleep on my bed, I did not see the necessity of
waking her up, and undressing myself I lay down beside her.... She
left me at daybreak.
Mimi had not been gone three hours when a milliner came with a
charming young girl, to invite herself and her friend to breakfast; I
thought the young girl well worth a breakfast, but I was tired and
wanted rest, and I begged them both to withdraw. Soon after they had
left me, Madame Quinson came with her daughter to make my bed. I put
my dressing-gown on, and began to write.
"Ah! the nasty hussies!" exclaims the mother.
"What is the matter, madam?"
"The riddle is clear enough, sir; these sheets are spoiled."
"I am very sorry, my dear madam, but change them, and the evil will
be remedied at once."
She went out of the room, threatening and grumbling,
"Let them come again, and see if I don't take care of them!"
Mimi remained alone with me, and I addressed her some reproaches for
her imprudence. But she laughed, and answered that Love had sent
those women on purpose to protect Innocence! After that, Mimi was no
longer under any restraint, she would come and share my bed whenever
she had a fancy to do so, unless I sent her back to her own room, and
in the morning she always left me in good time. But at the end of
four months my beauty informed me that our secret would soon be
discovered.
"I am very sorry," I said to her, "but I cannot help it."
"We ought to think of something."
"Well, do so."
"What can I think of? Well, come what will; the best thing I can do
is not to think of it."
Towards the sixth month she had become so large, that her mother, no
longer doubting the truth, got into a violent passion, and by dint of
blows compelled her to name the father. Mimi said I was the guilty
swain, and perhaps it was not an untruth.
With that great discovery Madame Quinson burst into my room in high
dudgeon. She threw herself on a chair, and when she had recovered
her breath she loaded me with insulting words, and ended by telling
me that I must marry her daughter. At this intimation, understanding
her object and wishing to cut the matter short, I told her that I was
already married in Italy.
"Then why did you come here and get my daughter with child?"
"I can assure you that I did not mean to do so. Besides, how do you
know that I am the father of the child?"
"Mimi says so, and she is certain of it."
"I congratulate her; but I warn you, madam, that I am ready to swear
that I have not any certainty about it."
"What then?"
"Then nothing. If she is pregnant, she will be confined."
She went downstairs, uttering curses and threats: the next day I was
summoned before the commissary of the district. I obeyed the
summons, and found Madame Quinson fully equipped for the battle. The
commissary, after the preliminary questions usual in all legal cases,
asked me whether I admitted myself guilty towards the girl Quinson of
the injury of which the mother, there present personally, complained.
"Monsieur le Commissaire, I beg of you to write word by word the
answer which I am going to give you."
"Very well."
"I have caused no injury whatever to Mimi, the plaintiff's daughter,
and I refer you to the girl herself, who has always had as much
friendship for me as I have had for her."
"But she declares that she is pregnant from your doings."
"That may be, but it is not certain."
"She says it is certain, and she swears that she has never known any
other man."
"If it is so, she is unfortunate; for in such a question a man cannot
trust any woman but his own wife."
"What did you give her in order to seduce her?"
"Nothing; for very far from having seduced her, she has seduced me,
and we agreed perfectly in one moment; a pretty woman does not find
it very hard to seduce me."
"Was she a virgin?"
"I never felt any curiosity about it either before or after;
therefore, sir, I do not know."
"Her mother claims reparation, and the law is against you."
"I can give no reparation to the mother; and as for the law I will
obey it when it has been explained to me, and when I am convinced
that I have been guilty against it."
"You are already convinced. Do you imagine that a man who gets an
honest girl with child in a house of which he is an inmate does not
transgress the laws of society?"
"I admit that to be the case when the mother is deceived; but when
that same mother sends her daughter to the room of a young man, are
we not right in supposing that she is disposed to accept peacefully
all the accidents which may result from such conduct?"
"She sent her daughter to your room only to wait on you."
"And she has waited on me as I have waited on her if she sends her to
my room this evening, and if it is agreeable to Mimi, I will
certainly serve her as well as I can; but I will have nothing to do
with her against her will or out of my room, the rent of which I have
always paid punctually."
"You may say what you like, but you must pay the fine."
"I will say what I believe to be just, and I will pay nothing; for
there can be no fine where there is no law transgressed. If I am
sentenced to pay I shall appeal even to the last jurisdiction and
until I obtain justice, for believe me, sir, I know that I am not
such an awkward and cowardly fellow as to refuse my caresses to a
pretty woman who pleases me, and comes to provoke them in my own
room, especially when I feel myself certain of the mother's
agreement."
I signed the interrogatory after I had read it carefully, and went
away. The next day the lieutenant of police sent for me, and after
he had heard me, as well as the mother and the daughter, he acquitted
me and condemned Madame Quinson in costs. But I could not after all
resist the tears of Mimi, and her entreaties for me to defray the
expenses of her confinement. She was delivered of a boy, who was
sent to the Hotel Dieu to be brought up at the nation's expense.
Soon afterwards Mimi ran away from her mother's house, and she
appeared on the stage at St. Laurent's Fair. Being unknown, she had
no difficulty in finding a lover who took her for a maiden. I found
her very pretty on the stage.
"I did not know," I said to her, "that you were a musician."
"I am a musician about as much as all my companions, not one of whom
knows a note of music. The girls at the opera are not much more
clever, and in spite of that, with a good voice and some taste, one
can sing delightfully."
I advised her to invite Patu to supper, and he was charmed with her.
Some time afterwards, however, she came to a bad end, and
disappeared.
The Italian comedians obtained at that time permission to perform
parodies of operas and of tragedies. I made the acquaintance at that
theatre of the celebrated Chantilly, who had been the mistress of the
Marechal de Saxe, and was called Favart because the poet of that name
had married her. She sang in the parody of 'Thetis et Pelee', by M.
de Fontelle, the part of Tonton, amidst deafening applause. Her
grace and talent won the love of a man of the greatest merit, the
Abbe de Voisenon, with whom I was as intimate as with Crebillon. All
the plays performed at the Italian Comedy, under the name of Madame
Favart, were written by the abbe, who became member of the Academie
after my departure from Paris. I cultivated an acquaintance the
value of which I could appreciate, and he honoured me with his
friendship. It was at my suggestions that the Abbe de Voisenon
conceived the idea of composing oratorios in poetry; they were sung
for the first time at the Tuileries, when the theatres were closed in
consequence of some religious festival. That amiable abbe, who had
written several comedies in secret, had very poor health and a very
small body; he was all wit and gracefulness, famous for his shrewd
repartees which, although very cutting, never offended anyone. It
was impossible for him to have any enemies, for his criticism only
grazed the skin and never wounded deeply. One day, as he was
returning from Versailles, I asked him the news of the court.
"The king is yawning," he answered, "because he must come to the
parliament to-morrow to hold a bed of justice."
"Why is it called a bed of justice?"
"I do not know, unless it is because justice is asleep during the
proceedings."
I afterwards met in Prague the living portrait of that eminent writer
in Count Francois Hardig, now plenipotentiary of the emperor at the
court of Saxony.
The Abbe de Voisenon introduced me to Fontenelle, who was then
ninety-three years of age. A fine wit, an amiable and learned man,
celebrated for his quick repartees, Fontenelle could not pay a
compliment without throwing kindness and wit into it. I told him
that I had come from Italy on purpose to see him.
"Confess, sir," he said to me, "that you have kept me waiting a very
long time."
This repartee was obliging and critical at the same time, and pointed
out in a delicate and witty manner the untruth of my compliment. He
made me a present of his works, and asked me if I liked the French
plays; I told him that I had seen 'Thetis et Pelee' at the opera.
That play was his own composition, and when I had praised it, he told
me that it was a 'tete pelee'.
"I was at the Theatre Francais last night," I said, "and saw
Athalie."
"It is the masterpiece of Racine; Voltaire, has been wrong in
accusing me of having criticized that tragedy, and in attributing to
me an epigram, the author of which has never been known, and which
ends with two very poor lines:
Pour avoir fait pis qu'Esther,
Comment diable as-to pu faire"
I have been told that M. de Fontenelle had been the tender friend of
Madame du Tencin, that M. d'Alembert was the offspring of their
intimacy, and that Le Rond had only been his foster-father. I knew
d'Alembert at Madame de Graffigny's. That great philosopher had the
talent of never appearing to be a learned man when he was in the
company of amiable persons who had no pretension to learning or
the sciences, and he always seemed to endow with intelligence those
who conversed with him.
When I went to Paris for the second time, after my escape from The
Leads of Venice, I was delighted at the idea of seeing again the
amiable, venerable Fontenelle, but he died a fortnight after my
arrival, at the beginning of the year 1757.
When I paid my third visit to Paris with the intention of ending my
days in that capital, I reckoned upon the friendship of
M. d'Alembert, but he died, like Fontenelle, a fortnight after my
arrival, towards the end of 1783. Now I feel that I have seen Paris
and France for the last time. The popular effervescence has
disgusted me, and I am too old to hope to see the end of it.
Count de Looz, Polish ambassador at the French court, invited me in
1751 to translate into Italian a French opera susceptible of great
transformations, and of having a grand ballet annexed to the subject
of the opera itself. I chose 'Zoroastre', by M. de Cahusac. I had
to adapt words to the music of the choruses, always a difficult task.
The music remained very beautiful, of course, but my Italian poetry
was very poor. In spite of that the generous sovereign sent me a
splendid gold snuff-box, and I thus contrived at the same time to
please my mother very highly.
It was about that time that Mdlle. Vesian arrived in Paris with her
brother. She was quite young, well educated, beautiful, most
amiable, and a novice; her brother accompanied her. Her father,
formerly an officer in the French army, had died at Parma, his native
city. Left an orphan without any means of support, she followed the
advice given by her friends; she sold the furniture left by her
father, with the intention of going to Versailles to obtain from the
justice and from the generosity of the king a small pension to enable
her to live. As she got out of the diligence, she took a coach, and
desired to be taken to some hotel close by the Italian Theatre; by
the greatest chance she was brought to the Hotel de Bourgogne, where
I was then staying myself.
In the morning I was told that there were two young Italians, brother
and sister, who did not appear very wealthy, in the next room to
mine. Italians, young, poor and newly arrived, my curiosity was
excited. I went to the door of their room, I knocked, and a young
man came to open it in his shirt.
"I beg you to excuse me, sir," he said to me, "if I receive you in
such a state."
"I have to ask your pardon myself. I only come to offer you my
services, as a countryman and as a neighbour."
A mattress on the floor told me where the young man had slept; a bed
standing in a recess and hid by curtains made me guess where the
sister was. I begged of her to excuse me if I had presented myself
without enquiring whether she was up.
She answered without seeing me, that the journey having greatly tried
her she had slept a little later than usual, but that she would get
up immediately if I would excuse her for a short time.
"I am going to my room, mademoiselle, and I will come back when you
send for me; my room is next door to your own."
A quarter of an hour after, instead of being sent for, I saw a young
and beautiful person enter my room; she made a modest bow, saying
that she had come herself to return my visit, and that her brother
would follow her immediately.
I thanked her for her visit, begged her to be seated, and I expressed
all the interest I felt for her. Her gratitude shewed itself more by
the tone of her voice than by her words, and her confidence being
already captivated she told me artlessly, but not without some
dignity, her short history or rather her situation, and she concluded
by these words:
"I must in the course of the day find a less expensive lodging, for I
only possess six francs."
I asked her whether she had any letters of recommendation, and she
drew out of her pocket a parcel of papers containing seven or eight
testimonials of good conduct and honesty, and a passport.
"Is this all you have, my dear countrywoman?"
"Yes. I intend to call with my brother upon the secretary of war, and
I hope he will take pity on me."
"You do not know anybody here?"
"Not one person, sir; you are the first man in France to whom I have
exposed my situation."
"I am a countryman of yours, and you are recommended to me by your
position as well as by your age; I wish to be your adviser, if you
will permit me."
"Ah, sir! how grateful I would be!"
"Do not mention it. Give me your papers, I will see what is to be
done with them. Do not relate your history to anyone, and do not say
one word about your position. You had better remain at this hotel.
Here are two Louis which I will lend you until you are in a position
to return them to me."
She accepted, expressing her heart-felt gratitude.
Mademoiselle Vesian was an interesting brunette of sixteen. She had
a good knowledge of French and Italian, graceful manners, and a
dignity which endowed her with a very noble appearance. She informed
me of her affairs without meanness, yet without that timidity which
seems to arise from a fear of the person who listens being disposed
to take advantage of the distressing position confided to his honour.
She seemed neither humiliated nor bold; she had hope, and she did not
boast of her courage. Her virtue was by no means ostentatious, but
there was in her an air of modesty which would certainly have put a
restraint upon anyone disposed to fail in respect towards her. I
felt the effect of it myself, for in spite of her beautiful eyes, her
fine figure, of the freshness of her complexion, her transparent
skin, her negligee--in one word, all that can tempt a man and which
filled me with burning desires, I did not for one instant lose
control over myself; she had inspired me with a feeling of respect
which helped me to master my senses, and I promised myself not only
to attempt nothing against her virtue, but also not to be the first
man to make her deviate from the right path. I even thought it
better to postpone to another interview a little speech on that
subject, the result of which might be to make me follow a different
course.
"You are now in a city," I said to her, "in which your destiny must
unfold itself, and in which all the fine qualities which nature has
so bountifully bestowed upon you, and which may ultimately cause your
fortune, may likewise cause your ruin; for here, by dear
countrywoman, wealthy men despise all libertine women except those
who have offered them the sacrifice of their virtue. If you are
virtuous, and are determined upon remaining so, prepare yourself to
bear a great deal of misery; if you feel yourself sufficiently above
what is called prejudice, if, in one word, you feel disposed to
consent to everything, in order to secure a comfortable position, be
very careful not to make a mistake. Distrust altogether the sweet
words which every passionate man will address to you for the sake of
obtaining your favours, for, his passion once satisfied, his ardour
will cool down, and you will find yourself deceived. Be wary of your
adorers; they will give you abundance of counterfeit coin, but do not
trust them far. As far as I am concerned, I feel certain that I
shall never injure you, and I hope to be of some use to you. To
reassure you entirely on my account, I will treat you as if you were
my sister, for I am too young to play the part of your father, and I
would not tell you all this if I did not think you a very charming
person."
Her brother joined us as we were talking together. He was a good-
looking young man of eighteen, well made, but without any style about
him; he spoke little, and his expression was devoid of individuality.
We breakfasted together, and having asked him as we were at table for
what profession he felt an inclination, he answered that he was
disposed to do anything to earn an honourable living.
"Have you any peculiar talent?"
"I write pretty well."
"That is something. When you go out, mistrust everybody; do not
enter any caf‚, and never speak to anyone in the streets. Eat your
meals in your room with your sister, and tell the landlady to give
you a small closet to sleep in. Write something in French to-day,
let me have it to-morrow morning, and we will see what can be done.
As for you, mademoiselle, my books are at your disposal, I have your
papers; to-morrow I may have some news to tell you; we shall not see
each other again to-day, for I generally come home very late." She
took a few books, made a modest reverence, and told me with a
charming voice that she had every confidence in me.
Feeling disposed to be useful to her, wherever I went during that day
I spoke of nothing but of her and of her affairs; and everywhere men
and women told me that if she was pretty she could not fail, but that
at all events it would be right for her to take all necessary steps.
I received a promise that the brother should be employed in some
office. I thought that the best plan would be to find some
influential lady who would consent to present Mdlle. Vesian to
M. d'Argenson, and I knew that in the mean time I could support her.
I begged Silvia to mention the matter to Madame de Montconseil, who
had very great influence with the secretary of war. She promised to
do so, but she wished to be acquainted with the young girl.
I returned to the hotel towards eleven o'clock, and seeing that there
was a light still burning in the room of Mdlle. Vesian I knocked at
her door. She opened it, and told me that she had sat up in the hope
of seeing me. I gave her an account of what I had done. I found her
disposed to undertake all that was necessary, and most grateful for
my assistance. She spoke of her position with an air of noble
indifference which she assumed in order to restrain her tears; she
succeeded in keeping them back, but the moisture in her eyes proved
all the efforts she was making to prevent them from falling. We had
talked for two hours, and going from one subject to another I learned
that she had never loved, and that she was therefore worthy of a
lover who would reward her in a proper manner for the sacrifice of
her virtue. It would have been absurd to think that marriage was to
be the reward of that sacrifice; the young girl had not yet made what
is called a false step, but she had none of the prudish feelings of
those girls who say that they would not take such a step for all the
gold in the universe, and usually give way before the slightest
attack; all my young friend wanted was to dispose of herself in a
proper and advantageous manner.
I could not help sighing as I listened to her very sensible remarks,
considering the position in which she was placed by an adverse
destiny. Her sincerity was charming to me; I was burning with
desire. Lucie of Pasean came back to my memory; I recollected how
deeply I had repented the injury I had done in neglecting a sweet
flower, which another man, and a less worthy one, had hastened to
pluck; I felt myself near a lamb which would perhaps become the prey
of some greedy wolf; and she, with her noble feelings, her careful
education, and a candour which an impure breath would perhaps destroy
for ever, was surely not destined for a lot of shame. I regretted I
was not rich enough to make her fortune, and to save her honour and
her virtue. I felt that I could neither make her mine in an
illegitimate way nor be her guardian angel, and that by becoming her
protector I should do her more harm than good; in one word, instead
of helping her out of the unfortunate position in which she was, I
should, perhaps, only contribute to her entire ruin. During that
time I had her near me, speaking to her in a sentimental way, and not
uttering one single word of love; but I kissed her hand and her arms
too often without coming to a resolution, without beginning a thing
which would have too rapidly come to an end, and which would have
compelled me to keep her for myself; in that case, there would have
been no longer any hope of a fortune for her, and for me no means of
getting rid of her. I have loved women even to madness, but I have
always loved liberty better; and whenever I have been in danger of
losing it fate has come to my rescue.
I had remained about four hours with Mdlle. Vesian, consumed by the
most intense desires, and I had had strength enough to conquer them.
She could not attribute my reserve to a feeling of modesty, and not
knowing why I did not shew more boldness she must have supposed that
I was either ill or impotent. I left her, after inviting her to
dinner for the next day.
We had a pleasant dinner, and her brother having gone out for a walk
after our meal we looked together out of the window from which we
could see all the carriages going to the Italian Comedy. I asked her
whether she would like to go; she answered me with a smile of
delight, and we started at once.
I placed her in the amphitheatre where I left her, telling her that
we would meet at the hotel at eleven o'clock. I would not remain
with her, in order to avoid the questions which would have been
addressed to me, for the simpler her toilet was the more interesting
she looked.
After I had left the theatre, I went to sup at Silvia's and returned
to the hotel. I was surprised at the sight of an elegant carriage; I
enquired to whom it belonged, and I was told that it was the carriage
of a young nobleman who had supped with Mdlle. Vesian. She was
getting on.
The first thing next morning, as I was putting my head out of the
window, I saw a hackney coach stop at the door of the hotel; a young
man, well dressed in a morning costume, came out of it, and a minute
after I heard him enter the room of Mdlle. Vesian. Courage! I had
made up my mind; I affected a feeling of complete indifference in
order to deceive myself.
I dressed myself to go out, and while I was at my toilet Vesian came
in and told me that he did not like to go into his sister's room
because the gentleman who had supped with her had just arrived.
"That's a matter of course," I said.
"He is rich and very handsome. He wishes to take us himself to
Versailles, and promises to procure some employment for me."
"I congratulate you. Who is he?"
"I do not know."
I placed in an envelope the papers she had entrusted to me, and I
handed them to him to return to his sister. I then went out. When I
came home towards three o'clock, the landlady gave me a letter which
had been left for me by Mdlle. Vesian, who had left the hotel.
I went to my room, opened the letter, and read the following lines:
"I return the money you have lent me with my best thanks. The Count
de Narbonne feels interested in me, and wishes to assist me and my
brother. I shall inform you of everything, of the house in which he
wishes me to go and live, where he promises to supply me all I want.
Your friendship is very dear to me, and I entreat you not to forget
me. My brother remains at the hotel, and my room belongs to me for
the month. I have paid everything."
"Here is," said I to myself, "a second Lucie de Pasean, and I am a
second time the dupe of my foolish delicacy, for I feel certain that
the count will not make her happy. But I wash my hands of it all."
I went to the Theatre Francais in the evening, and enquired about
Narbonne. The first person I spoke to told me,
"He is the son of a wealthy man, but a great libertine and up to his
neck in debts."
Nice references, indeed! For a week I went to all the theatres and
public places in the hope of making the acquaintance of the count,
but I could not succeed, and I was beginning to forget the adventure
when one morning, towards eight o'clock Vesian calling on me, told me
that his sister was in her room and wished to speak to me. I
followed him immediately. I found her looking unhappy and with eyes
red from crying. She told her brother to go out for a walk, and when
he had gone she spoke to me thus:
"M. de Narbonne, whom I thought an honest man, because I wanted him
to be such, came to sit by me where you had left me at the theatre;
he told me that my face had interested him, and he asked me who I
was. I told him what I had told you. You had promised to think of
me, but Narbonne told me that he did not want your assistance, as he
could act by himself. I believed him, and I have been the dupe of my
confidence in him; he has deceived me; he is a villain."
The tears were choking her: I went to the window so as to let her cry
without restraint: a few minutes after, I came back and I sat down by
her.
"Tell me all, my dear Vesian, unburden your heart freely, and do not
think yourself guilty towards me; in reality I have been wrong more
than you. Your heart would not now be a prey to sorrow if I had not
been so imprudent as to leave you alone at the theatre."
"Alas, sir! do not say so; ought I to reproach you because you
thought me so virtuous? Well, in a few words, the monster promised
to shew me every care, every attention, on condition of my giving him
an undeniable, proof of my affection and confidence--namely, to take
a lodging without my brother in the house of a woman whom he
represented as respectable. He insisted upon my brother not living
with me, saying that evil-minded persons might suppose him to be my
lover. I allowed myself to be persuaded. Unhappy creature! How
could I give way without consulting you? He told me that the
respectable woman to whom he would take me would accompany me to
Versailles, and that he would send my brother there so that we should
be both presented to the war secretary. After our first supper he
told me that he would come and fetch me in a hackney coach the next
morning. He presented me with two louis and a gold watch, and I
thought I could accept those presents from a young nobleman who
shewed so much interest in me. The woman to whom he introduced me
did not seem to me as respectable as he had represented her to be.
I have passed one week with her without his doing anything to benefit
my position. He would come, go out, return as he pleased, telling me
every day that it would be the morrow, and when the morrow came there
was always some impediment. At last, at seven o'clock this morning,
the woman told me that the count was obliged to go into the country,
that a hackney coach would bring me back to his hotel, and that he
would come and see me on his return. Then, affecting an air of
sadness, she told me that I must give her back the watch because the
count had forgotten to pay the watchmaker for it. I handed it to her
immediately without saying a word, and wrapping the little I
possessed in my handkerchief I came back here, where I arrived half
an hour since."
"Do you hope to see him on his return from the country?"
"To see him again! Oh, Lord! why have I ever seen him?"
She was crying bitterly, and I must confess that no young girl ever
moved me so deeply as she did by the expression of her grief. Pity
replaced in my heart the tenderness I had felt for her a week before.
The infamous proceedings of Narbonne disgusted me to that extent
that, if I had known where to find him alone, I would immediately
have compelled him to give me reparation. Of course, I took good
care not to ask the poor girl to give me a detailed account of her
stay in the house of Narbonne's respectable procurers ; I could guess
even more than I wanted to know, and to insist upon that recital
would have humiliated Mdlle. Vesian. I could see all the infamy of
the count in the taking back of the watch which belonged to her as a
gift, and which the unhappy girl had earned but too well. I did all
I could to dry her tears, and she begged me to be a father to her,
assuring me that she would never again do anything to render her
unworthy of my friendship, and that she would always be guided by my
advice.
"Well, my dear young friend, what you must do now is not only to
forget the unworthy count and his criminal conduct towards you, but
also the fault of which you have been guilty. What is done cannot be
undone, and the past is beyond remedy; but compose yourself, and
recall the air of cheerfulness which shone on your countenance a week
ago. Then I could read on your face honesty, candour, good faith,
and the noble assurance which arouses sentiment in those who can
appreciate its charm. You must let all those feelings shine again on
your features; for they alone can interest honest people, and you
require the general sympathy more than ever. My friendship is of
little importance to you, but you may rely upon it all the more
because I fancy that you have now a claim upon it which you had not a
week ago: Be quite certain, I beg, that I will not abandon you until
your position is properly settled. I cannot at present tell you
more; but be sure that I will think of you."
"Ah, my friend! if you promise to think of me, I ask for no more.
Oh! unhappy creature that I am; there is not a soul in the world who
thinks of me."
She was: so deeply moved that she fainted away. I came to her
assistance without calling anyone, and when she had recovered her
consciousness and some calm, I told her a hundred stories, true or
purely imaginary, of the knavish tricks played in Paris by men who
think of nothing but of deceiving young girls. I told her a few
amusing instances in order to make her more cheerful, and at last I
told her that she ought to be thankful for what had happened to her
with Narbonne, because that misfortune would give her prudence for
the future.
During that long tete-a-tete I had no difficulty in abstaining from
bestowing any caresses upon her; I did not even take her hand, for
what I felt for her was a tender pity; and I was very happy when at
the end of two hours I saw her calm and determined upon bearing
misfortune like a heroine.
She suddenly rose from her seat, and, looking at me with an air of
modest trustfulness, she said to me,
"Are, you particularly engaged in any way to-day?"
"No, my dear:"
"Well, then, be good enough to take me somewhere out of Paris; to
some place where I can breathe the fresh air freely; I shall then
recover that appearance which you think I must have to interest in my
favour those who will see me; and if I can enjoy a quiet sleep
throughout the next night I feel I shall be happy again."
"I am grateful to you for your confidence in me. We will go out as
soon as I am dressed. Your brother will return in the mean time."
"Oh, never mind my brother!"
"His presence is, on the contrary, of great importance. Recollect,
my dear Vesian, you must make Narbonne ashamed of his own conduct.
You must consider that if he should happen to hear that, on the very
day he abandoned you, you went into the country alone with me, he
would triumph, and would certainly say that he has only treated you
as you deserved. But if you go with your brother and me your
countryman, you give no occasion for slander."
"I blush not to have made that remark myself. We will wait for my
brother's return."
He was not long in coming back, and having sent for a coach we were
on the point of going, when Baletti called on me. I introduced him
to the young lady, and invited him to join our party. He accepted,
and we started. As my only purpose was to amuse Mdlle. Vesian, I
told the coachman to drive us to the Gros Caillou, where we made an
excellent impromptu dinner, the cheerfulness of the guests making up
for the deficiencies of the servants.
Vesian, feeling his head rather heavy, went out for a walk after
dinner, and I remained alone with his sister and my friend Baletti.
I observed with pleasure that Baletti thought her an agreeable girl,
and it gave me the idea of asking him to teach her dancing. I
informed him of her position, of the reason which had brought her to
Paris, of the little hope there was of her obtaining a pension from
the king, and of the necessity there was for her to do something to
earn a living. Baletti answered that he would be happy to do
anything, and when he had examined the figure and the general
conformation of the young girl he said to her,
"I will get Lani to take you for the ballet at the opera."
"Then," I said, "you must begin your lessons tomorrow. Mdlle. Vesian
stops at my hotel."
The young girl, full of wonder at my plan, began to laugh heartily,
and said,
"But can an opera dancer be extemporized like a minister of state?
I can dance the minuet, and my ear is good enough to enable me to go
through a quadrille; but with the exception of that I cannot dance
one step."
"Most of the ballet girls," said Baletti, "know no more than you do."
"And how much must I ask from M. Lani? I do not think I can expect
much."
"Nothing. The ballet girls are not paid."
"Then where is the advantage for me?" she said, with a sigh; "how
shall I live?"
"Do not think of that. Such as you are, you will soon find ten
wealthy noblemen who will dispute amongst themselves for the honour
of making up for the absence of salary. You have only to make a good
choice, and I am certain that it will not be long before we see you
covered with diamonds."
"Now I understand you. You suppose some great lord will keep me?"
"Precisely; and that will be much better than a pension of four
hundred francs, which you would, perhaps, not obtain without making
the same sacrifice.
Very much surprised, she looked at me to ascertain whether I was
serious or only jesting.
Baletti having left us, I told her it was truly the best thing she
could do, unless she preferred the sad position of waiting-maid to
some grand lady.
"I would not be the 'femme de chambre' even of the queen."
"And 'figurante' at the opera?"
"Much rather."
"You are smiling?"
"Yes, for it is enough to make me laugh. I the mistress of a rich
nobleman, who will cover me with diamonds! Well, I mean to choose
the oldest."
"Quite right, my dear; only do not make him jealous."
"I promise you to be faithful to him. But shall he find a situation
for my brother? However, until I am at the opera, until I have met
with my elderly lover, who will give me the means to support myself?"
"I, my dear girl, my friend Baletti, and all my friends, without
other interest than the pleasure of serving you, but with the hope
that you will live quietly, and that we shall contribute to your
happiness. Are you satisfied?"
"Quite so; I have promised myself to be guided entirely by your
advice, and I entreat you to remain always my best friend."
We returned to Paris at night, I left Mdlle. Vesian at the hotel, and
accompanied Baletti to his mother's. At supper-time, my friend
begged Silvia to speak to M. Lani in favour of our 'protegee', Silvia
said that it was a much better plan than to solicit a miserable
pension which, perhaps, would not be granted. Then we talked of a
project which was then spoken of, namely to sell all the appointments
of ballet girls and of chorus singers at the opera. There was even
some idea of asking a high price for them, for it was argued that the
higher the price the more the girls would be esteemed. Such a
project, in the midst of the scandalous habits and manners of the
time, had a sort of apparent wisdom; for it would have ennobled in a
way a class of women who with very few exceptions seem to glory in
being contemptible.
There were, at that time at the opera, several figurantes, singers
and dancers, ugly rather than plain, without any talent, who, in
spite of it all, lived in great comfort; for it is admitted that at
the opera a girl must needs renounce all modesty or starve. But if a
girl, newly arrived there, is clever enough to remain virtuous only
for one month, her fortune is certainly made, because then the
noblemen enjoying a reputation of wisdom and virtue are the only ones
who seek to get hold of her. Those men are delighted to hear their
names mentioned in connection with the newly-arrived beauty; they
even go so far as to allow her a few frolics, provided she takes
pride in what they give her, and provided her infidelities are not
too public. Besides, it is the fashion never to go to sup with one's
mistress without giving her notice of the intended visit, and
everyone must admit that it is a very wise custom.
I came back to the hotel towards eleven o'clock, and seeing that
Mdlle. Vesian's room was still open I went in. She was in bed.
"Let me get up," she said, "for I want to speak to you."
"Do not disturb yourself; we can talk all the same, and I think you
much prettier as you are."
"I am very glad of it."
"What have you got to tell me?"
"Nothing, except to speak of the profession I am going to adopt.
I am going to practice virtue in order to find a man who loves it
only to destroy it."
"Quite true; but almost everything is like that in this life. Man
always refers everything to himself, and everyone is a tyrant in his
own way. I am pleased to see you becoming a philosopher."
"How can one become a philosopher?"
"By thinking."
"Must one think a long while?"
"Throughout life."
"Then it is never over?"
"Never; but one improves as much as possible, and obtains the sum of
happiness which one is susceptible of enjoying."
"And how can that happiness be felt?"
"By all the pleasure which the philosopher can procure when he is
conscious of having obtained them by his own exertions, and
especially by getting rid of the many prejudices which make of the
majority of men a troop of grown-up children."
"What is pleasure? What is meant by prejudices?"
"Pleasure is the actual enjoyment of our senses; it is a complete
satisfaction given to all our natural and sensual appetites; and,
when our worn-out senses want repose, either to have breathing time,
or to recover strength, pleasure comes from the imagination, which
finds enjoyment in thinking of the happiness afforded by rest. The
philosopher is a person who refuses no pleasures which do not produce
greater sorrows, and who knows how to create new ones."
"And you say that it is done by getting rid of prejudices? Then tell
me what prejudices are, and what must be done to get rid of them."
"Your question, my dear girl, is not an easy one to answer, for moral
philosophy does not know a more important one, or a more difficult
one to decide; it is a lesson which lasts throughout life. I will
tell you in a few words that we call prejudice every so-called duty
for the existence of which we find no reason in nature."
"Then nature must be the philosopher's principal study?"
"Indeed it is; the most learned of philosophers is the one who
commits the fewest errors."
"What philosopher, in your opinion, has committed the smallest
quantity of errors?"
"Socrates."
"Yet he was in error sometimes?"
"Yes, in metaphysics."
"Oh! never mind that, for I think he could very well manage without
that study."
"You are mistaken; morals are only the metaphysics of physics; nature
is everything, and I give you leave to consider as a madman whoever
tells you that he has made a new discovery in metaphysics. But if I
went on, my dear, I might appear rather obscure to you. Proceed
slowly, think; let your maxims be the consequence of just reasoning,
and keep your happiness in view; in the end you must be happy."
"I prefer the lesson you have just taught me to the one which M.
Baletti will give me to-morrow; for I have an idea that it will weary
me, and now I am much interested."
"How do you know that you are interested?"
"Because I wish you not to leave me."
"Truly, my dear Vesian, never has a philosopher described sympathy
better than you have just done. How happy I feel! How is it that I
wish to prove it by kissing you?"
"No doubt because, to be happy, the soul must agree with the senses."
"Indeed, my divine Vesian? Your intelligence is charming."
"It is your work, dear friend; and I am so grateful to you that I
share your desires."
"What is there to prevent us from satisfying such natural desires?
Let us embrace one another tenderly."
What a lesson in philosophy! It seemed to us such a sweet one, our
happiness was so complete, that at daybreak we were still kissing one
another, and it was only when we parted in the morning that we
discovered that the door of the room had remained open all night.
Baletti gave her a few lessons, and she was received at the opera;
but she did not remain there more than two or three months,
regulating her conduct carefully according to the precepts I had laid
out for her. She never received Narbonne again, and at last accepted
a nobleman who proved himself very different from all others, for the
first thing he did was to make her give up the stage, although it was
not a thing according to the fashion of those days. I do not
recollect his name exactly; it was Count of Tressan or Trean. She
behaved in a respectable way, and remained with him until his death.
No one speaks of her now, although she is living in very easy
circumstances; but she is fifty-six, and in Paris a woman of that age
is no longer considered as being among the living.
After she left the Hotel de Bourgogne, I never spoke to her.
Whenever I met her covered with jewels and diamonds, our souls
saluted each other with joy, but her happiness was too precious for
me to make any attempt against it. Her brother found a situation,
but I lost sight of him.
