On my return I had an adventure which mortified me not a little, since
it showed me the sort of reputation I enjoy with the public. I was
packing my luggage at Avignon, preparing to start for Paris, when there
entered the room two venerable figures who introduced themselves as
members of the Municipal Council. I supposed they had come for the
purpose of talking about some church, when they announced pompously and
verbosely that their visit had as its object to commend to my honour and
to my virtue a lady who was to be my travelling companion. I replied,
very peevishly, that they need have no fears concerning my honour and my
virtue, but that I was not at all pleased to travel with a woman, for I
should then not be able to smoke on the road.
Upon the arrival of the stage-coach I found within a woman, tall and
pretty, simply and stylishly dressed, who said she was ill, and
despaired of ever reaching Paris alive. We entered into conversation. I
was as polite and agreeable as it is possible to be when I am compelled
to remain long in the same position. My companion talked intelligently
and with no Marseilles accent. She was an ardent Bonapartist, of very
enthusiastic temperament; she believed in the immortality of the soul,
not overmuch in the catechism, and was on the whole an optimist. I could
not help feeling that she had a certain fear of me.
At Saint Etienne the two seated britzska was exchanged for a double
carriage. We had the four seats to ourselves, and consequently
twenty-four hours of _tête-à-tête_ in addition to the preceding thirty.
But although we chatted (what a pretty word!) unintermittingly, I was
unable to learn anything of my opposite neighbour, except that she was
going to be married, and that she was excellent company. To come to the
point, we took on, at Moulins, two uncongenial travellers, and finally
reached Paris, where my mysterious lady precipitated herself into the
arms of a very ugly man who must have been her father. I took off my cap
to her, and was about to get into a cab, when my unknown, leaving her
father, came up to me and in a voice full of emotion, said:
“I am deeply touched, sir, by your kindness to me. I can not tell you
how grateful I am. Never shall I forget the happiness I have had in
travelling with such a _celebrated_ man.” I am quoting her words. But
this word _celebrated_ explained the Municipal Councillors and the
trepidation of the lady. They had evidently seen my name on the
post-office register, and the lady, who had read my books, expected to
be swallowed alive. This most unjust opinion of me must be shared,
doubtless, by more than one of my lady readers. What ever put it into
your head to want to know me? I was in a bad humour for two days
following this incident; then I resigned myself to it. It is a
remarkable fact, that after I became a great scamp I lived for two
years on my former good reputation; but now that I have entirely
reformed I still pass for a scapegrace.
As a fact, my wild life lasted but three years, and even then my heart
was not in it. I threw myself into dissipation not from inclination, but
partly from despondency, and partly, perhaps, out of curiosity. I am
afraid, however, that this fact will injure my chances for membership in
the Academy. I am criticised, also, for not being religious, and for not
going to church. I might act the hypocrite, but I should not know how to
go about it, and, besides, I should not have the patience.
If you are astonished that all the goddesses are fair, you will be
still more astonished at Naples when you see statues with the hair
coloured red. It seems that it was the fashion, formerly, for ladies to
use red powder, nay, even gold powder. On the other hand, you will see
in the paintings at the studios many goddesses with black hair. It is
difficult for me to decide which colour I prefer. Only, I advise you
not to powder your hair. There is a terrible Greek word which signifies
black hair. _Melanchaites_ (Μελαγχαἱτης); this χα has a diabolical
sound.
I shall remain in Paris all the fall, I fancy, hard at work on a moral
book, which will be about as amusing as the social war in which you will
engage in Naples. Good-bye. You promised me some words of affection, and
while I am still waiting for them, I am not very sanguine of receiving
them.
You used to admire my wealth of antique gems. Alas! the other day I lost
my most beautiful one, a magnificent Juno, while doing a kind act; that
is, while carrying home a drunken man who had fractured his thigh. And
that stone was an Etruscan. Juno held a scythe, and there is no other
monument where she is so represented. Do sympathise with me!