RETURN TO ITALY - Chapter IV
The Play--The Russian--Petri--Rosalie at the Convent
When the marquis had gone, seeing Rosalie engaged with Veronique,
I set myself to translate the 'Ecossaise' for the actors at Genoa,
who seemed pretty good ones, to play.
I thought Rosalie looking sad at dinner, and said,
"What is the matter, dearest? You know I do not like to see you
looking melancholy."
"I am vexed at Veronique's being prettier than I."
"I see what you mean; I like that! But console your, self,
Veronique is nothing compared to you, in my eyes at all events.
You are my only beauty; but to reassure you I will ask M. de
Grimaldi to tell her mother to come and fetch her away, and to get
me another maid as ugly as possible."
"Oh, no! pray do not do so; he will think I am jealous, and I
wouldn't have him think so for the world."
"Well, well, smile again if you do not wish to vex me."
"I shall soon do that, if, as you assure me, she will not make me
lose your love. But what made the old gentleman get me a girl
like that? Do you think he did it out of mischief?"
"No, I don't think so. I am sure, on the other hand, that he
wanted to let you know that you need not fear being compared with
anybody. Are you pleased with her in other respects?"
"She works well, and she is very respectful. She does not speak
four words without addressing me as signora, and she is careful to
translate what she says from Italian into French. I hope that in
a month I shall speak well enough for us to dispense with her
services when we go to Florence. I have ordered Le Duc to clear
out the room I have chosen for her, and I will send her her dinner
from our own table. I will be kind to her, but I hope you will
not make me wretched."
"I could not do so; and I do not see what there can be in common
between the girl and myself."
"Then you will pardon my fears."
"The more readily as they shew your love."
"I thank you, but keep my secret."
I promised never to give a glance to Veronique, of whom I was
already afraid, but I loved Rosalie and would have done anything
to save her the least grief.
I set to at my translation after dinner; it was work I liked. I
did not go out that day, and I spent the whole of the next morning
with M. de Grimaldi.
I went to the banker Belloni and changed all my gold into gigliati
sequins. I made myself known after the money was changed, and the
head cashier treated me with great courtesy. I had bills on this
banker for forty thousand Roman crowns, and on Lepri bills for
twenty thousand.
Rosalie did not want to go to the play again, so I got her a piece
of embroidery to amuse her in the evening. The theatre was a
necessity for me; I always went unless it interferred with some
still sweeter pleasure. I went by myself, and when I got home I
found the marquis talking to my mistress. I was pleased, and
after I had embraced the worthy nobleman I complimented Rosalie on
having kept him till my arrival, adding gently that she should
have put down her work.
"Ask him," she replied, "if he did not make me keep on. He said
he would go if I didn't, so I gave in to keep him."
She then rose, stopped working, and in the course of an
interesting conversation she succeeded in making the marquis
promise to stay to supper, thus forestalling my intention. He was
not accustomed to take anything at that hour, and ate little; but
I saw he was enchanted with my treasure, and that pleased me, for
I did not think I had anything to fear from a man of sixty;
besides, I was glad at the opportunity of accustoming Rosalie to
good society. I wanted her to be a little coquettish, as a woman
never pleases in society unless she shews a desire to please.
Although the position was quite a strange one for her, she made me
admire the natural aptitude of women, which may be improved or
spoiled by art but which exists more or less in them all, from the
throne to the milk-pail. She talked to M. de Grimaldi in a way
that seemed to hint she was willing to give a little hope. As our
guest did not eat, she said graciously that he must come to dinner
some day that she might have an opportunity of seeing whether he
really had any appetite.
When he had gone I took her on my knee, and covering her with
kisses asked her where she had learnt to talk to great people so
well.
"It's an easy matter," she replied. "Your eyes speak to my soul,
and tell me what to do and what to say."
A professed rhetorician could not have answered more elegantly or
more flatteringly.
I finished the translation; I had it copied out by Costa and took
it to Rossi, the manager, who said he would put it on directly,
when I told him I was going to make him a present of the play. I
named the actors of my choice, and asked him to bring them to dine
with me at my inn, that I might read the play and distribute the
parts.
As will be guessed, my invitation was accepted, and Rosalie
enjoyed dining with the actors and actresses, and especially
hearing herself called Madame Casanova every moment. Veronique
explained everything she did not understand.
When my actors were round me in a ring, they begged me to tell
them their parts, but I would not give in on this point.
"The first thing to be done," said I, "is for you to listen
attentively to the whole piece without minding about your parts.
When you know the whole play I will satisfy your curiosity."
I knew that careless or idle actors often pay no attention to
anything except their own parts, and thus a piece, though well
played in its parts, is badly rendered as a whole.
They submitted with a tolerably good grace, which the high and
mighty players of the Comedie Francaise would certainly not have
done. Just as I was beginning my heading the Marquis de Grimaldi
and the banker Belloni came in to call on me. I was glad for them
to be present at the trial, which only lasted an hour and a
quarter.
After I had heard the opinion of the actors, who by their praise
of various situations shewed me that they had taken in the plot, I
told Costa to distribute the parts; but no sooner was this done
than the first actor and the first actress began to express their
displeasure; she, because I had given her the part of Lady Alton;
he, because I had not given him Murray's part; but they had to
bear it as it was my will. I pleased everybody by asking them all
to dinner for the day after the morrow, after dinner the piece to
be rehearsed for the first time.
The banker Belloni asked me to dinner for the following day,
including my lady, who excused herself with great politeness, in
the invitation; and M. Grimaldi was glad to take my place at
dinner at her request.
When I got to M. Belloni's, I was greatly surprised to see the
impostor Ivanoff, who instead of pretending not to know me, as he
ought to have done, came forward to embrace me. I stepped back
and bowed, which might be put down to a feeling of respect,
although my coldness and scant ceremony would have convinced any
observant eye of the contrary. He was well dressed, but seemed
sad, though he talked a good deal, and to some purpose, especially
on politics. The conversation turned on the Court of Russia,
where Elizabeth Petrovna reigned; and he said nothing, but sighed
and turned away pretending to wipe the tears from his eyes. At
dessert, he asked me if I had heard anything of Madame Morin,
adding, as if to recall the circumstance to my memory, that we had
supped together there:
"I believe she is quite well," I answered.
His servant, in yellow and red livery, waited on him at table.
After dinner he contrived to tell me that he had a matter of the
greatest importance he wanted to discuss with me.
"My only desire sir, is to avoid all appearance of knowing
anything about you."
"One word from you will gain me a hundred thousand crowns, and you
shall have half."
I turned my back on him, and saw him no more at Genoa.
When I got back to the inn I found M. de Grimaldi giving Rosalie
a lesson in Italian.
"She has given me an exquisite dinner," said he, "you must be very
happy with her."
In spite of his honest face, M. Grimaldi was in love with her,
but I thought I had nothing to fear. Before he went she invited
him to come to the rehearsal next day.
When the actors came I noticed amongst them a young man whose face
I did not know, and on my enquiring Rossi told me he was the
prompter.
"I won't have any prompter; send him about his business."
"We can't get on without him."
"You'll have to; I will be the prompter."
The prompter was dismissed, but the three actresses began to
complain.
"If we knew our parts as well as the 'pater noster' we should be
certain to come to a dead stop if the prompter isn't in his box."
"Very good," said I to the actress, who was to play Lindane, "I
will occupy the box myself, but I shall see your drawers."
"You would have some difficulty in doing that," said the first
actor, "she doesn't wear any."
"So much the better."
"You know nothing about it," said the actress.
These remarks put us all in high spirits, and the ministers of
Thalia ended by promising that they would dispense with a
prompter. I was pleased with the way the piece was read, and they
said they would be letter-perfect in three days. But something
happened.
On the day fixed for the rehearsal they came without the Lindane
and Murray. They were not well, but Rossi said they would not
fail us eventually. I took the part of Murray, and asked Rosalie
to be the Lindane.
"I don't read Italian well enough," she whispered, "and I don't
wish to have the actors laughing at me; but Veronique could do
it."
"Ask if she will read the part."
However, Veronique said that she could repeat it by heart.
"All the better," said I to her, laughing internally, as I thought
of Soleure, for I saw that I should thus be obliged to make love
to the girl to whom I had not spoken for the fortnight she had
been with us. I had not even had a good look at her face. I was
so afraid of Rosalie (whom I loved better every day) taking
fright.
What I had feared happened. When I took Veronique's hand, and
said, "Si, bella Lindana, debbe adorarvi!" everybody clapped,
because I gave the words their proper expression; but glancing at
Rosalie I saw a shadow on her face, and I was angry at not having
controlled myself better. Nevertheless, I could not help feeling
amazed at the way Veronique played the part. When I told her that
I adored her she blushed up to her eyes; she could not have played
the love-sick girl better.
We fixed a day for the dress-rehearsal at the theatre, and the
company announced the first night a week in advance to excite
public curiosity. The bills ran:
"We shall give Voltaire's Ecossaise, translated by an anonymous
author: no prompter will be present."
I cannot give the reader any idea of the trouble I had to quiet
Rosalie. She refused to be comforted; wept incessantly, and
touched my heart by gentle reproaches.
"You love Veronique," said she, "and you only translated that
piece to have an opportunity of declaring your love."
I succeeded in convincing her that she wronged me, and at last
after I had lavished caresses on her she suffered herself to be
calmed. Next morning she begged pardon for her jealousy, and to
cure it insisted on my speaking constantly to Veronique. Her
heroism went farther. She got up before me and sent me my coffee
by Veronique, who was as astonished as I was.
At heart Rosalie was a great creature, capable of noble resolves,
but like all women she gave way to sudden emotions. From that day
she gave me no more signs of jealousy, and treated her maid with
more kindness than ever. Veronique was an intelligent and well-
mannered girl, and if my heart had not been already occupied she
would have reigned there.
The first night of the play I took Rosalie to a box, and she would
have Veronique with her. M. de Grimaldi did not leave her for a
moment. The play was praised to the skies; the large theatre was
full of the best people in Genoa. The actors surpassed
themselves, though they had no prompter, and were loudly
applauded. The piece ran five nights and was performed to full
houses. Rossi, hoping perhaps that I would make him a present of
another play, asked my leave to give my lady a superb pelisse of
lynx-fur, which pleased her immensely.
I would have done anything to spare my sweetheart the least
anxiety, and yet from my want of thought I contrived to vex her.
I should never have forgiven myself if Providence had not ordained
that I should be the cause of her final happiness.
"I have reason to suspect," she said one day, "that I am with
child, and I am enchanted at the thought of giving you a dear
pledge of my love."
"If it comes at such a time it will be mine, and I assure you I
shall love it dearly."
"And if it comes two or three weeks sooner you will not be sure
that you are the parent?"
"Not quite sure; but I shall love it just as well, and look upon
it as my child as well as yours."
"I am sure you must be the father. It is impossible the child can
be Petri's, who only knew me once, and then very imperfectly,
whilst you and I have lived in tender love for so long a time."
She wept hot tears.
"Calm yourself, dearest, I implore you! You are right; it cannot
be Petri's child. You know I love you, and I cannot doubt that
you are with child by me and by me alone. If you give me a baby
as pretty as yourself, it will be mine indeed. Calm yourself."
"How can I be calm when you can have such a suspicion?"
We said no more about it; but in spite of my tenderness, my
caresses, and all the trifling cares which bear witness to love,
she was often sad and thoughtful. How many times I reproached
myself bitterly for having let out my silly calculations.
A few days later she gave me a sealed letter, saying,--
"The servant has given me this letter when you were away. I am
offended by his doing so, and I want you to avenge me."
I called the man, and said,--
"Where did you get this letter?"
"From a young man, who is unknown to me. He gave me a crown, and
begged me to give the letter to the lady without your seeing me,
and he promised to give me two crowns more if I brought him a
reply tomorrow. I did not think I was doing wrong, sir, as the
lady was at perfect liberty to tell you."
"That's all very well, but you must go, as the lady, who gave me
the letter unopened, as you can see for yourself, is offended with
you."
I called Le Duc, who paid the man and sent him away. I opened the
letter, and found it to be from Petri. Rosalie left my side, not
wishing to read the contents. The letter ran as follows:
"I have seen you, my dear Rosalie. It was just as you were coming
out of the theatre, escorted by the Marquis de Grimaldi, who is my
godfather. I have not deceived you; I was still intending to come
and marry you at Marseilles next spring, as I promised. I love
you faithfully, and if you are still my good Rosalie I am ready to
marry you here in the presence of my kinfolk. If you have done
wrong I promise never to speak of it, for I know that it was I who
led you astray. Tell me, I entreat you, whether I may speak to
the Marquis de Grimaldi with regard to you. I am ready to receive
you from the hands of the gentleman with whom you are living,
provided you are not his wife. Be sure, if you are still free,
that you can only recover your honour by marrying your seducer."
"This letter comes from an honourable man who is worthy of
Rosalie," I thought to myself, "and that's more than I shall be,
unless I marry her myself. But Rosalie must decide."
I called her to me, gave her the letter, and begged her to read it
attentively. She did so, and gave it me back, asking me if I
advised her to accept Petri's offer.
"If you do dear Rosalie, I shall die of grief; but if I do not
yield you, my honour bids me marry you, and that I am quite ready
to do."
At this the charming girl threw herself on my breast, crying in
the voice of true love, "I love you and you alone, darling; but it
is not true that your honour bids you marry me. Ours is a
marriage of the heart; our love is mutual, and that is enough for
my happiness."
"Dear Rosalie, I adore you, but I am the best judge of my own
honour. If Petri is a well-to-do man and a man who would make you
happy, I must either give you up or take you myself."
"No, no; there is no hurry to decide. If you love me I am happy,
for I love you and none other. I shall not answer the letter, and
I don't want to hear anything more of Petri."
"You may be sure that I will say no more of him, but I am sure
that the marquis will have a hand in it."
"I daresay, but he won't speak to me twice on the subject."
After this treaty--a more sincere one than the Powers of Europe
usually make--I resolved to leave Genoa as soon as I got some
letters for Florence and Rome. In the meanwhile all was peace and
love between myself and Rosalie. She had not the slightest shadow
of jealousy in her soul, and M. de Grimaldi was the sole witness
of our happiness.
Five or six days later I went to see the marquis at his casino at
St. Pierre d'Arena, and he accosted me by saying that he was
happy to see me as he had an important matter he wished to discuss
with me. I guessed what it would be, but begged him to explain
himself. He then spoke as follows:
"A worthy merchant of the town brought his nephew, a young man
named Petri, to see me two days ago. He told me that the young
man is my godson, and he asked me to protect him. I answered that
as his godfather I owed him my protection, and I promised to do
what I could.
"He left my godson to talk it over with me, and he informed me
that he knew your mistress before you did at Marseilles, that he
had promised to marry her next spring, that he had seen her in my
company, and that having followed us he found out that she lived
with you. He was told that she was your wife, but not believing
it, wrote her a letter saying that he was ready to marry her; but
this letter fell into your hands, and he has had no reply to it.
"He could not make up his mind to lose a hope which made his
happiness, so he resolved to ascertain, through my good offices,
whether Rosalie would accept his proposition. He flatters himself
that on his informing me of his prosperous condition, I can tell
you that he is a likely man to make his wife happy. I told him
that I knew you, and would speak to you on the matter, and
afterwards inform him of the result of our interview.
"I have made enquires into his condition, and find that he has
already amassed a considerable sum of money. His credit, morals,
and reputation, are all excellent; besides, he is his uncle's sole
heir, and the uncle passes for a man very comfortably off. And
now, my dear M. Casanova, tell me what answer I am to make."
"Tell him that Rosalie is much obliged to him, and begs him to
forget her. We are going away in three or four days. Rosalie
loves me, and I her, and I am ready to marry her whenever she
likes."
"That's plain speaking; but I should have thought a man like you
would prefer freedom to a woman, however beautiful, to whom you
would be bound by indissoluble ties. Will you allow me to speak
to Rosalie myself about it?"
"You need not ask, my leave; speak to her, but in your own person
and not as representing my opinions. I adore her, and would not
have her think that I could cherish the thought of separating from
her."
"If you don't want me to meddle in the matter, tell me so
frankly."
"On the contrary, I wish you to see for yourself that I am not the
tyrant of the woman I adore."
"I will talk to her to-night."
I did not come home till supper-time, that the marquis might say
what he had to say in perfect freedom. The noble Genoese supped
with us, and the conversation turned on indifferent subjects.
After he had gone, my sweetheart told me what had passed between
them. He had spoken to her in almost the same words that he had
addressed to me, and our replies were nearly identical, though she
had requested the marquis to say no more about his godson, to
which request he had assented.
We thought the matter settled, and busied ourselves with
preparations for our departure; but three or four days after, the
marquis (who we imagined had forgotten all about his godson) came
and asked us to dine with him at St. Pierre d'Arena, where Rosalie
had never been.
"I want you to see my beautiful garden before you go," said M.
Grimaldi to her; "it will be one more pleasant recollection of
your stay for me."
We went to see him at noon the next day. He was with an elderly
man and woman, to whom he introduced us. He introduced me by
name, and Rosalie as a person who belonged to me.
We proceeded to walk in the garden, where the two old people got
Rosalie between them, and overwhelmed her with politeness and
complimentary remarks. She, who was happy and in high spirits,
answered in Italian, and delighted them by her intelligence, and
the grace which she gave to her mistakes in grammar.
The servants came to tell us that dinner was ready, and what was
my astonishment on entering the room to see the table laid for
six. I did not want much insight now to see through the marquis's
trick, but it was too late. We sat down, and just then a young
man came in.
"You are a little late," said the marquis; and then, without
waiting for his apology, he introduced him to me as M. Petri, his
godson, and nephew to his other guests, and he made him sit down
at his left hand, Rosalie being on his right. I sat opposite to
her, and seeing that she turned as pale as death the blood rushed
to my face; I was terribly enraged. This small despot's plot
seemed disgraceful to me; it was a scandalous insult to Rosalie
and myself--an insult which should be washed away in blood. I was
tempted to stab him at his table, but in spite of my agitation I
constrained myself. What could I do? Take Rosalie's arm, and
leave the room with her? I thought it over, but foreseeing the
consequences I could not summon up courage.
I have never spent so terrible an hour as at that fatal dinner.
Neither Rosalie nor myself ate a morsel, and the marquis who
helped all the guests was discreet enough not to see that we left
one course after another untouched. Throughout dinner he only
spoke to Petri and his uncle, giving them opportunities for saying
how large a trade they did. At dessert the marquis told the young
man that he had better go and look after his affairs, and after
kissing his hand he withdrew with a bow to which nobody replied.
Petri was about twenty-four, of a moderate height, with ordinary
but yet good-natured and honest features; respectful in his
manner, and sensible though not witty in what he said. After all
was said and done, I thought him worthy of Rosalie, but I
shuddered at the thought that if she became his wife she was lost
to me forever. After he had gone, the marquis said he was sorry
he had not known him before as he might be of use to him in his
business.
"However, we will see to that in the future," said he, meaningly,
"I mean to make his fortune."
At this the uncle and aunt, who no doubt knew what to say, began
to laud and extol their nephew, and ended by saying that as they
had no children they were delighted that Petri, who would be their
heir, was to have his excellency's patronage.
"We are longing," they added, "to see the girl from Marseilles he
is going to marry. We should welcome her as a beloved daughter."
Rosalie whispered to me that she could bear it no longer, and
begged me to take her away. We rose, and after we had saluted the
company with cold dignity we left the room. The marquis was
visibly disconcerted. As he escorted us to the door he stammered
out compliments, for the want of something to say, telling Rosalie
that he should not have the honour of seeing her that evening, but
that he hoped to call on her the next day.
When we were by ourselves we seemed to breathe again, and spoke to
one another to relieve ourselves of the oppression which weighed
on our minds.
Rosalie thought, as well as I, that the marquis had played us a
shameful trick, and she told me I ought to write him a note,
begging him not to give himself the trouble of calling on us
again.
"I will find some means of vengeance," said I ; "but I don't think
it would be a good plan to write to him. We will hasten our
preparations for leaving, and receive him to-morrow with that cold
politeness which bears witness to indignation. Above all, we will
not make the slightest reference to his godson."
"If Petri really loves me," said she, "I pity him. I think he is
a good fellow, and I don't feel angry with him for being present
at dinner, as he may possibly be unaware that leis presence was
likely to give me offence. But I still shudder when I think of
it: I thought I should have died when our eyes met! Throughout
dinner he could not see my eyes, as I kept them nearly shut, and
indeed he could hardly see me. Did he look at me while he was
talking?"
"No, he only looked at me. I am as sorry for him as you are, for,
as you say, he looks an honest fellow."
"Well, it's over now, and I hope I shall make a good supper. Did
you notice what the aunt said? I am sure she was in the plot.
She thought she would gain me over by saying she was ready to
treat me like her own child. She was a decent-looking woman,
too."
We made a good supper, and a pleasant night inclined us to forget
the insult the marquis had put upon us. When we woke up in the
morning we laughed at it. The marquis came to see us in the
evening, and greeting me with an air of mingled confusion and
vexation, he said that he knew he had done wrong in surprising me
as he had, but that he was ready to do anything in his power by
way of atonement, and to give whatever satisfaction I liked.
Rosalie did not give me time to answer. "If you really feel,"
said she, "that you have insulted us, that is enough; we are amply
avenged. But all the same, sir, we shall be on our guard against
you for the future, though that will be for a short while, as we
are just leaving."
With this proud reply she made him a low bow and left the room.
When he was left alone with me M. Grimaldi addressed me as
follows:
"I take a great interest in your mistress's welfare; and as I feel
sure that she cannot long be happy in her present uncertain
position, while I am sure that she would make my godson an
excellent wife, I was determined that both of you should make his
acquaintance, for Rosalie herself knows very little of him. I
confess that the means I employed were dishonourable, but you will
pardon the means for the sake of the excellent end I had in view.
I hope you will have a pleasant journey, and that you may live for
a long time in uninterrupted happiness with your charming
mistress. I hope you will write to me, and always reckon on my
standing your friend, and doing everything in my power for you.
Before I go, I will tell you something which will give you an idea
of the excellent disposition of young Petri, to whose happiness
Rosalie seems essential.
"He only told me the following, after I had absolutely refused to
take charge of a letter he had written to Rosalie, despairing of
being able to send it any other way. After assuring me that
Rosalie had loved him, and that consequently she could not have
any fixed aversion for him, he added that if the fear of being
with child was the reason why she would not marry him he would
agree to put off the marriage till after the child was born,
provided that she would agree to stay in Genoa in hiding, her
presence to be unknown to all save himself. He offers to pay all
the expenses of her stay. He made a remarkably wise reflection
when we were talking it over.
"'If she gave birth to a child too soon after our marriage,' said
he, 'both her honour and mine would suffer hurt; she might also
lose the liking of my relations, and if Rosalie is to be my wife I
want her to be happy in everything."'
At this Rosalie, who had no doubt been listening at the door after
the manner of her sex, burst into the room, and astonished me by
the following speech:
"If M. Petri chid not tell you that it was possible that I might
be with child by him, he is a right honest man, but now I tell you
so myself. I do not think it likely, but still it is possible.
Tell him, sir, that I will remain at Genoa until the child is
born, in the case of my being pregnant, of which I have no certain
knowledge, or until I am quite sure that I am not with child. If
I do have a child the truth will be made known. In the case of
there being no doubt of M. Petri's being the parent, I am ready to
marry him; but if he sees for himself that the child is not his I
hope he will be reasonable enough to let me alone for the future.
As to the expenses and my lodging at Genoa, tell him that he need
not trouble himself about either."
I was petrified. I saw the consequence of my own imprudent words,
and my heart seemed broken. The marquis asked me if this decision
was given with my authority, and I replied that as my sweetheart's
will was mine he might take her words for law. He went away in
high glee, for he foresaw that all would go well with his plans
when once he was able to exert his influence on Rosalie. The
absent always fare ill.
"You want to leave me, then, Rosalie?" said I, when we were alone.
"Yes, dearest, but it will not be for long."
"I think we shall never see each other again."
"Why not, dearest? You have only to remain faithful to me.
Listen to me. Your honour and my own make it imperative that I
should convince Petri that I am not with child by him, and you
that I am with child by you."
"I never doubted it, dear Rosalie."
"Yes, dear, you doubted it once and that is enough. Our parting
will cost me many a bitter tear, but these pangs are necessary to
my future happiness. I hope you will write to me, and after the
child is born it will be for you to decide on how I shall rejoin
you. If I am not pregnant I will rejoin you in a couple of months
at latest."
"Though I may grieve at your resolve I will not oppose it, for I
promised I would never cross you. I suppose you will go into a
convent; and the marquis must find you a suitable one, and protect
you like a father. Shall I speak to him on the subject? I will
leave you as much money as you will want."
"That will not be much. As for M. de Grimaldi, he is bound in
honour to procure me an asylum. I don't think it will be
necessary for you to speak to him about it."
She was right, and I could not help admiring the truly astonishing
tact of this girl.
In the morning I heard that the self-styled Ivanoff had made his
escape an hour before the police were to arrest him at the suit of
the banker, who had found out that one of the bills he had
presented was forged. He had escaped on foot, leaving all his
baggage behind him.
Next day the marquis came to tell Rosalie that his godson had no
objection to make to her plan. He added that the young man hoped
she would become his wife, whether the child proved to be his or
not.
"He may hope as much as he likes," said Rosalie, with a smile.
"He also hopes that you will allow him to call on you now and
then. I have spoken to my kinswoman, the mother-superior of
convent. You are to have two rooms, and a very good sort of woman
is to keep you company, wait on you, and nurse you when the time
comes. I have paid the amount you are to pay every month for your
board. Every morning I will send you a confidential man, who will
see your companion and will bring me your orders. And I myself
will come and see you at the grating as often as you please."
It was then my sad duty, which the laws of politeness enjoined, to
thank the marquis for his trouble.
"'Tis to you, my lord," said I, "I entrust Rosalie. I am placing
her, I am sure, in good hands. I will go on my way as soon as she
is in the convent; I hope you will write a letter to the mother-
superior for her to take."
"I will write it directly," said he.
And as Rosalie had told him before that she would pay for
everything herself, he gave her a written copy of the agreement he
had made.
"I have resolved," said Rosalie to the marquis, "to go into the
convent to-morrow, and I shall be very glad to have a short visit
from you the day after."
"I will be there," said the marquis, "and you may be sure that I
will do all in my power to make your stay agreeable."
The night was a sad one for both of us. Love scarcely made a
pause amidst our alternate complaints and consolations. We swore
to be faithful for ever, and our oaths were sincere, as ardent
lovers' oaths always are. But they are as nought unless they are
sealed by destiny, and that no mortal mind may know.
Rosalie, whose eyes were red and wet with tears, spent most of the
morning in packing up with Veronique, who cried too. I could not
look at her, as I felt angry with myself for thinking how pretty
she was. Rosalie would only take two hundred sequins, telling me
that if she wanted more she could easily let me know.
She told Veronique to look after me well for the two or three days
I should spend at Genoa, made me a mute curtsy, and went out with
Costa to get a sedan-chair. Two hours after, a servant of the
marquis's came to fetch her belongings, and I was thus left alone
and full of grief till the marquis came and asked me to give him
supper, advising that Veronique should be asked in to keep us
company.
"That's a rare girl," said he, "you really don't know her, and you
ought to know her better."
Although I was rather surprised, I did not stop to consider what
the motives of the crafty Genoese might be, and I went and asked
Veronique to come in. She replied politely that she would do so,
adding that she knew how great an honour I did her.
I should have been the blindest of men if I had not seen that the
clever marquis had succeeded in his well-laid plans, and that he
had duped me as if I had been the merest freshman. Although I
hoped with all my heart that I should get Rosalie back again, I
had good reasons for suspecting that all the marquis's wit would
be employed to seduce her, and I could not help thinking that he
would succeed.
Nevertheless, in the position I was in, I could only keep my fears
to myself and let him do his utmost.
He was nearly sixty, a thorough disciple of Epicurus, a heavy
player, rich, eloquent, a master of state-craft, highly popular at
Genoa, and well acquainted with the hearts of men, and still more
so with the hearts of women. He had spent a good deal of time at
Venice to be more at liberty, and to enjoy the pleasures of life
at his ease. He had never married, and when asked the reason
would reply that he knew too well that women would be either
tyrants or slaves, and that he did not want to be a tyrant to any
woman, nor to be under any woman's orders. He found some way of
returning to his beloved Venice, in spite of the law forbidding
any noble who has filled the office of doge to leave his native
soil. Though he behaved to me in a very friendly manner he knew
how to maintain an air of superiority which imposed on me.
Nothing else could have given him the courage to ask me to dinner
when Petri was to be present. I felt that I had been tricked, and
I thought myself in duty bound to make him esteem me by my
behaviour for the future. It was gratitude on his part which made
him smooth the way to my conquest of Veronique, who doubtless
struck him as a fit and proper person to console me for the loss
of Rosalie.
I did not take any part in the conversation at supper, but the
marquis drew out Veronique, and she shone. It was easy for me to
see that she had more wit and knowledge of the world than Rosalie,
but in my then state of mind this grieved rather than rejoiced me.
M. de Grimaldi seemed sorry to see me melancholy, and forced me,
as it were, to join in the conversation. As he was reproaching me
in a friendly manner for my silence, Veronique said with a
pleasing smile that I had a good reason to be silent after the
declaration of love I had made to her, and which she had received
so ill. I was astonished at this, and said that I did not
remember having ever made her such a declaration; but she made me
laugh in spite of myself, when she said that her name that day was
Lindane.
"Ah, that's in a play," said I, "in real life the man who declares
his love in words is a simpleton; 'tis with deeds the true lover
shews his love."
"Very true, but your lady was frightened all the same."
"No, no, Veronique; she is very fond of you."
"I know she is; but I have seen her jealous of me."
"If so, she was quite wrong."
This dialogue, which pleased me little, fell sweetly on the
marquis's ears; he told me that he was going to call on Rosalie
next morning, and that if I liked to give him a supper, he would
come and tell me about her in the evening. Of course I told him
that he would be welcome.
After Veronique had lighted me to my room, she asked me to let my
servants wait on me, as if she did so now that my lady was gone,
people might talk about her.
"You are right," said I, "kindly send Le Duc to me."
Next morning I had a letter from Geneva. It came from my
Epicurean syndic, who had presented M. de Voltaire with my
translation of his play, with an exceedingly polite letter from
me, in which I begged his pardon for having taken the liberty of
travestying his fine French prose in Italian. The syndic told me
plainly that M. de Voltaire had pronounced my translation to be a
bad one.
My self-esteem was so wounded by this, and by his impoliteness in
not answering my letter, with which he could certainly find no
fault, whatever his criticism of my translation might be, that I
became the sworn enemy of the great Voltaire. I have censured him
in all the works I have published, thinking that in wronging him I
was avenging myself, to such an extent did passion blind me. At
the present time I feel that even if my works survive, these
feeble stings of mine can hurt nobody but myself. Posterity will
class me amongst the Zoiluses whose own impotence made them attack
this great man to whom civilization and human happiness owe so
much. The only crime that can truthfully be alleged against
Voltaire is his attacks on religion. If he had been a true
philosopher he would never have spoken on such matters, for, even
if his attacks were based on truth, religion is necessary to
morality, without which there can be no happiness.
