Leave Bologna a Happy Man--The Captain Parts from Us in Reggio, where I
Spend a Delightful Night with Henriette--Our Arrival in Parma--Henriette
Resumes the Costume of a Woman; Our Mutual Felicity--I Meet Some
Relatives of Mine, but Do not Discover Myself
The reader can easily guess that there was a change as sudden as a
transformation in a pantomime, and that the short but magic sentence,
"Come to Parma," proved a very fortunate catastrophe, thanks to which I
rapidly changed, passing from the tragic to the gentle mood, from the
serious to the tender tone. Sooth to say, I fell at her feet, and
lovingly pressing her knees I kissed them repeatedly with raptures of
gratitude. No more 'furore', no more bitter words; they do not suit the
sweetest of all human feelings! Loving, docile, grateful, I swear never
to beg for any favour, not even to kiss her hand, until I have shewn
myself worthy of her precious love! The heavenly creature, delighted to
see me pass so rapidly from despair to the most lively tenderness, tells
me, with a voice the tone of which breathes of love, to get up from my
knees.
"I am sure that you love me," says she, "and be quite certain that I
shall leave nothing undone to secure the constancy of your feelings."
Even if she had said that she loved me as much as I adored her, she would
not have been more eloquent, for her words expressed all that can be
felt. My lips were pressed to her beautiful hands as the captain entered
the room. He complimented us with perfect good faith, and I told him, my
face beaming with happiness, that I was going to order the carriage. I
left them together, and in a short time we were on our road, cheerful,
pleased, and merry.
Before reaching Reggio the honest captain told me that in his opinion it
would be better for him to proceed to Parma alone, as, if we arrived in
that city all together, it might cause some remarks, and people would
talk about us much less if we were without him. We both thought him quite
right, and we immediately made up our minds to pass the night in Reggio,
while the captain would take a post-chaise and go alone to Parma.
According to that arrangement his trunk was transferred to the vehicle
which he hired in Reggio, he bade us farewell and went away, after having
promised to dine with us on the following day in Parma.
The decision taken by the worthy Hungarian was, doubtless, as agreeable
to my lovely friend as to me, for our delicacy would have condemned us to
a great reserve in his presence. And truly, under the new circumstances,
how were we to arrange for our lodgings in Reggio? Henriette could not,
of course, share the bed of the captain any more, and she could not have
slept with me as long as he was with us, without being guilty of great
immodesty. We should all three have laughed at that compulsory reserve
which we would have felt to be ridiculous, but we should, for all that,
have submitted to it. Love is the little impudent god, the enemy of
bashfulness, although he may very often enjoy darkness and mystery, but
if he gives way to it he feels disgraced; he loses three-fourths of his
dignity and the greatest portion of his charms.
Evidently there could be no happiness for Henriette or for me unless we
parted with the person and even with the remembrance of the excellent
captain.
We supped alone. I was intoxicated with a felicity which seemed too
immense, and yet I felt melancholy, but Henriette, who looked sad
likewise, had no reproach to address to me. Our sadness was in reality
nothing but shyness; we loved each other, but we had had no time to
become acquainted. We exchanged only a few words, there was nothing
witty, nothing interesting in our conversation, which struck us both as
insipid, and we found more pleasure in the thoughts which filled our
minds. We knew that we were going to pass the night together, but we
could not have spoken of it openly. What a night! what a delightful
creature was that Henriette whom I have loved so deeply, who has made me
so supremely happy!
It was only three or four days later that I ventured on asking her what
she would have done, without a groat in her possession, having not one
acquaintance in Parma, if I had been afraid to declare my love, and if I
had gone to Naples. She answered that she would doubtless have found
herself in very great difficulties, but that she had all along felt
certain of my love, and that she had foreseen what had happened. She
added that, being impatient to know what I thought of her, she had asked
me to translate to the captain what she had expressed respecting her
resolution, knowing that he could neither oppose that resolution nor
continue to live with her, and that, as she had taken care not to include
me in the prayer which she had addressed to him through me, she had
thought it impossible that I should fail to ask whether I could be of
some service to her, waiting to take a decision until she could have
ascertained the nature of my feelings towards her. She concluded by
telling me that if she had fallen it was the fault of her husband and of
her father-in-law, both of whom she characterized as monsters rather than
men.
When we reached Parma, I gave the police the name of Farusi, the same
that I had assumed in Cesena; it was the family name of my mother; while
Henriette wrote down, "Anne D'Arci, from France." While we were answering
the questions of the officer, a young Frenchman, smart and
intelligent-looking, offered me his services, and advised me not to put
up at the posting-inn, but to take lodgings at D'Andremorit's hotel,
where I should find good apartments, French cooking, and the best French
wines.
Seeing that Henriette was pleased with the proposal, I told the young man
to take us there, and we were soon very comfortably lodged. I engaged the
Frenchman by the day, and carefully settled all my arrangements with
D'Andremont. After that I attended to the housing of my carriage.
Coming in again for a few minutes, I told Henriette that I would return
in time for dinner, and, ordering the servant to remain in the ante-room,
I went out alone.
Parma was then groaning under a new government. I had every reason to
suppose that there were spies everywhere and under every form. I
therefore did not want to have at my heels a valet who might have injured
rather than served me. Though I was in my father's native city, I had no
acquaintances there, but I knew that I should soon find my way.
When I found myself in the streets, I scarcely could believe that I was
in Italy, for everything had a tramontane appearance. I heard nothing but
French and Spanish, and those who did not speak one of those languages
seemed to be whispering to one another. I was going about at random,
looking for a hosier, yet unwilling to enquire where I could find one; at
last I saw what I wanted.
I entered the shop, and addressing myself to a stout, good-looking woman
seated behind the counter, I said,
"Madam, I wish to make some purchases."
"Sir, shall I send for someone speaking French?"
"You need not do so, I am an Italian."
"God be praised! Italians are scarce in these days."
"Why scarce?"
"Do you not know that Don Philip has arrived, and that his wife, Madame
de France, is on the road?"
"I congratulate you, for it must make trade very good. I suppose that
money is plentiful, and that there is abundance of all commodities."
"That is true, but everything is high in price, and we cannot get
reconciled to these new fashions. They are a bad mixture of French
freedom and Spanish haughtiness which addles our brains. But, sir, what
sort of linen do you require?"
"In the first place, I must tell you that I never try to drive a hard
bargain, therefore be careful. If you charge me too much, I shall not
come again. I want some fine linen for twenty-four chemises, some dimity
for stays and petticoats, some muslin, some cambric for
pocket-handkerchiefs, and many other articles which I should be very glad
to find in your shop, for I am a stranger here, and God knows in what
hands I am going to trust myself!"
"You will be in honest ones, if you will give me your confidence."
"I am sure that you deserve it, and I abandon my interests to you. I want
likewise to find some needlewomen willing to work in the lady's room,
because she requires everything to be made very rapidly."
"And dresses?"
"Yes, dresses, caps, mantles-in fact, everything, for she is naked."
"With money she will soon have all she wants. Is she young?"
"She is four years younger than I. She is my wife."
"Ah! may God bless you! Any children?"
"Not yet, my good lady; but they will come, for we do all that is
necessary to have them."
"I have no doubt of it. How pleased I am! Well, sir, I shall send for the
very phoenix of all dressmakers. In the mean time, choose what you
require, it will amuse you."
I took the best of everything and paid, and the dressmaker making her
appearance at that moment I gave my address, requesting that various
sorts of stuff might be sent at once. I told the dressmaker and her
daughter, who had come with her, to follow me and to carry the linen. On
my way to the hotel I bought several pairs of silk stockings, and took
with me a bootmaker who lived close by.
Oh, what a delightful moment! Henriette, who had not the slightest idea
of what I had gone out for, looked at everything with great pleasure, yet
without any of those demonstrations which announce a selfish or
interested disposition. She shewed her gratitude only by the delicate
praise which she bestowed upon my taste and upon the quality of the
articles I had purchased. She was not more cheerful on account of my
presents, but the tender affection with which she looked at me was the
best proof of her grateful feelings.
The valet I had hired had entered the room with the shoemaker. Henriette
told him quietly to withdraw, and not to come unless he was called. The
dressmaker set to work, the shoemaker took her measure, and I told him to
bring some slippers. He returned in a short time, and the valet came in
again with him without having been called. The shoemaker, who spoke
French, was talking the usual nonsense of dealers, when she interrupted
him to ask the valet, who was standing familiarly in the room, what he
wanted.
"Nothing, madam, I am only waiting for your orders."
"Have I not told you that you would be called when your services were
required?"
"I should like to know who is my master, you or the gentleman?"
"Neither," I replied, laughing. "Here are your day's wages. Be off at
once."
The shoemaker, seeing that Henriette spoke only French, begged to
recommend a teacher of languages.
"What country does he belong to?" she enquired.
"To Flanders, madam," answered Crispin, "he is a very learned man, about
fifty years old. He is said to be a good man. He charges three libbre for
each lesson of one hour, and six for two hours, but he requires to be
paid each time."
"My dear," said Henriette to me, "do you wish me to engage that master?"
"Yes, dearest, it will amuse you."
The shoemaker promised to send the Flemish professor the next morning.
The dressmakers were hard at work, the mother cutting and the daughter
sewing, but, as progress could not be too rapid, I told the mother that
she would oblige us if she could procure another seamstress who spoke
French.
"You shall have one this very day, sir," she answered, and she offered me
the services of her own son as a servant, saying that if I took him I
should be certain to have neither a thief nor a spy about me, and that he
spoke French pretty well. Henriette thought we could not do better than
take the young man. Of course that was enough to make me consent at once,
for the slightest wish of the woman we love is our supreme law. The
mother went for him, and she brought back at the same time the
half-French dressmaker. It all amused my goddess, who looked very happy.
The young man was about eighteen, pleasant, gentle and modest. I enquired
his name, and he answered that it was Caudagna.
The reader may very likely recollect that my father's native place had
been Parma, and that one of his sisters had married a Caudagna. "It would
be a curious coincidence," I thought, "if that dressmaker should be my
aunt, and my valet my cousin!" but I did not say it aloud.
Henriette asked me if I had any objection to the first dressmaker dining
at our table.
"I entreat you, my darling," I answered, "never, for the future, to ask
my consent in such trifling matters. Be quite certain, my beloved, that I
shall always approve everything you may do."
She smiled and thanked me. I took out my purse, and said to her;
"Take these fifty sequins, dearest, to pay for all your small expenses,
and to buy the many trifles which I should be sure to forget."
She took the money, assuring me that she was vastly obliged to me.
A short time before dinner the worthy captain made his appearance.
Henriette ran to meet him and kissed him, calling him her dear father,
and I followed her example by calling him my friend. My beloved little
wife invited him to dine with us every day. The excellent fellow, seeing
all the women working busily for Henriette, was highly pleased at having
procured such a good position for his young adventuress, and I crowned
his happiness by telling him that I was indebted to him for my felicity.
Our dinner was delicious, and it proved a cheerful meal. I found out that
Henriette was dainty, and my old friend a lover of good wines. I was
both, and felt that I was a match for them. We tasted several excellent
wines which D'Andremont had recommended, and altogether we had a very
good dinner.
The young valet pleased me in consequence of the respectful manner in
which he served everyone, his mother as well as his masters. His sister
and the other seamstress had dined apart.
We were enjoying our dessert when the hosier was announced, accompanied
by another woman and a milliner who could speak French. The other woman
had brought patterns of all sorts of dresses. I let Henriette order caps,
head-dresses, etc., as she pleased, but I would interfere in the dress
department although I complied with the excellent taste of my charming
friend. I made her choose four dresses, and I was indeed grateful for her
ready acceptance of them, for my own happiness was increased in
proportion to the pleasure I gave her and the influence I was obtaining
over her heart.
Thus did we spend the first day, and we could certainly not have
accomplished more.
In the evening, as we were alone at supper, I fancied that her lovely
face looked sad. I told her so.
"My darling," she answered, with a voice which went to my heart, "you are
spending a great deal of money on me, and if you do so in the hope of my
loving you more dearly I must tell you it is money lost, for I do not
love you now more than I did yesterday, but I do love you with my whole
heart. All you may do that is not strictly necessary pleases me only
because I see more and more how worthy you are of me, but it is not
needed to make me feel all the deep love which you deserve."
"I believe you, dearest, and my happiness is indeed great if you feel
that your love for me cannot be increased. But learn also, delight of my
heart, that I have done it all only to try to love you even more than I
do, if possible. I wish to see you beautiful and brilliant in the attire
of your sex, and if there is one drop of bitterness in the fragrant cup
of my felicity, it is a regret at not being able to surround you with the
halo which you deserve. Can I be otherwise than delighted, my love, if
you are pleased?"
"You cannot for one moment doubt my being pleased, and as you have called
me your wife you are right in one way, but if you are not very rich I
leave it to you to judge how deeply I ought to reproach myself."
"Ah, my beloved angel! let me, I beg of you, believe myself wealthy, and
be quite certain that you cannot possibly be the cause of my ruin. You
were born only for my happiness. All I wish is that you may never leave
me. Tell me whether I can entertain such a hope."
"I wish it myself, dearest, but who can be sure of the future? Are you
free? Are you dependent on anyone?"
"I am free in the broadest meaning of that word, I am dependent on no one
but you, and I love to be so."
"I congratulate you, and I am very glad of it, for no one can tear you
from my arms, but, alas! you know that I cannot say the same as you. I am
certain that some persons are, even now, seeking for me, and they will
not find it very difficult to secure me if they ever discover where I am.
Alas! I feel how miserable I should be if they ever succeeded in dragging
me away from you!"
"You make me tremble. Are you afraid of such a dreadful misfortune here?"
"No, unless I should happen to be seen by someone knowing me."
"Are any such persons likely to be here at present?"
"I think not."
"Then do not let our love take alarm, I trust your fears will never be
verified. Only, my darling one, you must be as cheerful as you were in
Cesena."
"I shall be more truly so now, dear friend. In Cesena I was miserable;
while now I am happy. Do not be afraid of my being sad, for I am of a
naturally cheerful disposition."
"I suppose that in Cesena you were afraid of being caught by the officer
whom you had left in Rome?"
"Not at all; that officer was my father-in-law, and I am quite certain
that he never tried to ascertain where I had gone. He was only too glad
to get rid of me. I felt unhappy because I could not bear to be a charge
on a man whom I could not love, and with whom I could not even exchange
one thought. Recollect also that I could not find consolation in the idea
that I was ministering to his happiness, for I had only inspired him with
a passing fancy which he had himself valued at ten sequins. I could not
help feeling that his fancy, once gratified, was not likely at his time
of life to become a more lasting sentiment, and I could therefore only be
a burden to him, for he was not wealthy. Besides, there was a miserable
consideration which increased my secret sorrow. I thought myself bound in
duty to caress him, and on his side, as he thought that he ought to pay
me in the same money, I was afraid of his ruining his health for me, and
that idea made me very unhappy. Having no love for each other, we allowed
a foolish feeling of regard to make both of us uncomfortable. We
lavished, for the sake of a well-meaning but false decorum, that which
belongs to love alone. Another thing troubled me greatly. I was afraid
lest people might suppose that I was a source of profit to him. That idea
made me feel the deepest shame, yet, whenever I thought of it, I could
not help admitting that such a supposition, however false, was not
wanting in probability. It is owing to that feeling that you found me so
reserved towards you, for I was afraid that you might harbour that
fearful idea if I allowed, you to read in my looks the favourable
impression which you had made on my heart."
"Then it was not owing to a feeling of self-love?"
"No, I confess it, for you could but judge me as I deserved. I had been
guilty of the folly now known to you because my father-in-law intended to
bury me in a convent, and that did not suit my taste. But, dearest
friend, you must forgive me if, I cannot confide even to you the history
of my life."
"I respect your secret, darling; you need not fear any intrusion from me
on that subject. All we have to do is to love one another, and not to
allow any dread of the future to mar our actual felicity."
The next day, after a night of intense enjoyment, I found myself more
deeply in love than before, and the next three months were spent by us in
an intoxication of delight.
At nine o'clock the next morning the teacher of Italian was announced. I
saw a man of respectable appearance, polite, modest, speaking little but
well, reserved in his answers, and with the manners of olden times. We
conversed, and I could not help laughing when he said, with an air of
perfect good faith, that a Christian could only admit the system of
Copernicus as a clever hypothesis. I answered that it was the system of
God Himself because it was that of nature, and that it was not in Holy
Scripture that the laws of science could be learned.
The teacher smiled in a manner which betrayed the Tartufe, and if I had
consulted only my own feelings I should have dismissed the poor man, but
I thought that he might amuse Henriette and teach her Italian; after all
it was what I wanted from him. My dear wife told him that she would give
him six libbre for a lesson of two hours: the libbra of Parma being worth
only about threepence, his lessons were not very expensive. She took her
first lesson immediately and gave him two sequins, asking him to purchase
her some good novels.
Whilst my dear Henriette was taking her lesson, I had some conversation
with the dressmaker, in order to ascertain whether she was a relative of
mine.
"What does your husband do?" I asked her.
"He is steward to the Marquis of Sissa."
"Is your father still alive?"
"No, sir, he is dead."
"What was his family name?"
"Scotti."
"Are your husband's parents still alive?"
"His father is dead, but his mother is still alive, and resides with her
uncle, Canon Casanova."
That was enough. The good woman was my Welsh cousin, and her children
were my Welsh nephews. My niece Jeanneton was not pretty; but she
appeared to be a good girl. I continued my conversation with the mother,
but I changed the topic.
"Are the Parmesans satisfied with being the subjects of a Spanish
prince?"
"Satisfied? Well, in that case, we should be easily pleased, for we are
now in a regular maze. Everything is upset, we do not know where we are.
Oh! happy times of the house of Farnese, whither have you departed? The
day before yesterday I went to the theatre, and Harlequin made everybody
roar with laughter. Well, now, fancy, Don Philipo, our new duke, did all
he could to remain serious, and when he could not manage it, he would
hide his face in his hat so that people should not see that he was
laughing, for it is said that laughter ought never to disturb the grave
and stiff countenance of an Infante of Spain, and that he would be
dishonoured in Madrid if he did not conceal his mirth. What do you think
of that? Can such manners suit us? Here we laugh willingly and heartily!
Oh! the good Duke Antonio (God rest his soul!) was certainly as great a
prince as Duke Philipo, but he did not hide himself from his subjects
when he was pleased, and he would sometimes laugh so heartily that he
could be heard in the streets. Now we are all in the most fearful
confusion, and for the last three months no one in Parma knows what's
o'clock."
"Have all the clocks been destroyed?"
"No, but ever since God created the world, the sun has always gone down
at half-past five, and at six the bells have always been tolled for the
Angelus. All respectable people knew that at that time the candle had to
be lit. Now, it is very strange, the sun has gone mad, for he sets every
day at a different hour. Our peasants do not know when they are to come
to market. All that is called a regulation but do you know why? Because
now everybody knows that dinner is to be eaten at twelve o'clock. A fine
regulation, indeed! Under the Farnese we used to eat when we were hungry,
and that was much better."
That way of reasoning was certainly singular, but I did not think it
sounded foolish in the mouth of a woman of humble rank. It seems to me
that a government ought never to destroy ancient customs abruptly, and
that innocent errors ought to be corrected only by degrees.
Henriette had no watch. I felt delighted at the idea of offering her such
a present, and I went out to purchase one, but after I had bought a very
fine watch, I thought of ear-rings, of a fan, and of many other pretty
nicknacks. Of course I bought them all at once. She received all those
gifts offered by love with a tender delicacy which overjoyed me. She was
still with the teacher when I came back.
"I should have been able," he said to me, "to teach your lady heraldry,
geography, history, and the use of the globes, but she knows that
already. She has received an excellent education."
The teacher's name was Valentin de la Haye. He told me that he was an
engineer and professor of mathematics. I shall have to speak of him very
often in these Memoirs, and my readers will make his acquaintance by his
deeds better than by any portrait I could give of him, so I will merely
say that he was a true Tartufe, a worthy pupil of Escobar.
We had a pleasant dinner with our Hungarian friend. Henriette was still
wearing the uniform, and I longed to see her dressed as a woman. She
expected a dress to be ready for the next day, and she was already
supplied with petticoats and chemises.
Henriette was full of wit and a mistress of repartee. The milliner, who
was a native of Lyons, came in one morning, and said in French:
"Madame et Monsieur, j'ai l'honneur de vous souhaiter le bonjour."
"Why," said my friend, "do you not say Monsieur et madame?"
"I have always heard that in society the precedence is given to the
ladies."
"But from whom do we wish to receive that honour?"
"From gentlemen, of course."
"And do you not see that women would render themselves ridiculous if they
did not grant to men the same that they expect from them. If we wish them
never to fail in politeness towards us, we must shew them the example."
"Madam," answered the shrewd milliner, "you have taught me an excellent
lesson, and I will profit by it. Monsieur et madame, je suis votre
servante."
This feminine controversy greatly amused me.
Those who do not believe that a woman can make a man happy through the
twenty-four hours of the day have never possessed a woman like Henriette.
The happiness which filled me, if I can express it in that manner, was
much greater when I conversed with her even than when I held her in my
arms. She had read much, she had great tact, and her taste was naturally
excellent; her judgment was sane, and, without being learned, she could
argue like a mathematician, easily and without pretension, and in
everything she had that natural grace which is so charming. She never
tried to be witty when she said something of importance, but accompanied
her words with a smile which imparted to them an appearance of trifling,
and brought them within the understanding of all. In that way she would
give intelligence even to those who had none, and she won every heart.
Beauty without wit offers love nothing but the material enjoyment of its
physical charms, whilst witty ugliness captivates by the charms of the
mind, and at last fulfils all the desires of the man it has captivated.
Then what was my position during all the time that I possessed my
beautiful and witty Henriette? That of a man so supremely happy that I
could scarcely realize my felicity!
Let anyone ask a beautiful woman without wit whether she would be willing
to exchange a small portion of her beauty for a sufficient dose of wit.
If she speaks the truth, she will say, "No, I am satisfied to be as I
am." But why is she satisfied? Because she is not aware of her own
deficiency. Let an ugly but witty woman be asked if she would change her
wit against beauty, and she will not hesitate in saying no. Why?
Because, knowing the value of her wit, she is well aware that it is
sufficient by itself to make her a queen in any society.
But a learned woman, a blue-stocking, is not the creature to minister to
a man's happiness. Positive knowledge is not a woman's province. It is
antipathetic to the gentleness of her nature, to the amenity, to the
sweet timidity which are the greatest charms of the fair sex, besides,
women never carry their learning beyond certain limits, and the
tittle-tattle of blue-stockings can dazzle no one but fools. There has
never been one great discovery due to a woman. The fair sex is deficient
in that vigorous power which the body lends to the mind, but women are
evidently superior to men in simple reasoning, in delicacy of feelings,
and in that species of merit which appertains to the heart rather than to
the mind.
Hurl some idle sophism at a woman of intelligence. She will not unravel
it, but she will not be deceived by it, and, though she may not say so,
she will let you guess that she does not accept it. A man, on the
contrary, if he cannot unravel the sophism, takes it in a literal sense,
and in that respect the learned woman is exactly the same as man. What a
burden a Madame Dacier must be to a man! May God save every honest man
from such!
When the new dress was brought, Henriette told me that she did not want
me to witness the process of her metamorphosis, and she desired me to go
out for a walk until she had resumed her original form. I obeyed
cheerfully, for the slightest wish of the woman we love is a law, and our
very obedience increases our happiness.
As I had nothing particular to do, I went to a French bookseller in whose
shop I made the acquaintance of a witty hunchback, and I must say that a
hunchback without wit is a raga avis; I have found it so in all
countries. Of course it is not wit which gives the hump, for, thank God,
all witty men are not humpbacked, but we may well say that as a general
rule the hump gives wit, for the very small number of hunchbacks who have
little or no wit only confirms the rule: The one I was alluding to just
now was called Dubois-Chateleraux. He was a skilful engraver, and
director of the Mint of Parma for the Infante, although that prince could
not boast of such an institution.
I spent an hour with the witty hunchback, who shewed me several of his
engravings, and I returned to the hotel where I found the Hungarian
waiting to see Henriette. He did not know that she would that morning
receive us in the attire of her sex. The door was thrown open, and a
beautiful, charming woman met us with a courtesy full of grace, which no
longer reminded us of the stiffness or of the too great freedom which
belong to the military costume. Her sudden appearance certainly
astonished us, and we did not know what to say or what to do. She invited
us to be seated, looked at the captain in a friendly manner, and pressed
my hand with the warmest affection, but without giving way any more to
that outward familiarity which a young officer can assume, but which does
not suit a well-educated lady. Her noble and modest bearing soon
compelled me to put myself in unison with her, and I did so without
difficulty, for she was not acting a part, and the way in which she had
resumed her natural character made it easy for me to follow her on that
ground.
I was gazing at her with admiration, and, urged by a feeling which I did
not take time to analyze, I took her hand to kiss it with respect, but,
without giving me an opportunity of raising it to my lips, she offered me
her lovely mouth. Never did a kiss taste so delicious.
"Am I not then always the same?" said she to me, with deep feeling.
"No, heavenly creature, and it is so true that you are no longer the same
in my eyes that I could not now use any familiarity towards you. You are
no longer the witty, free young officer who told Madame Querini about the
game of Pharaoh, end about the deposits made to your bank by the captain
in so niggardly a manner that they were hardly worth mentioning."
"It is very true that, wearing the costume of my sex, I should never dare
to utter such words. Yet, dearest friend, it does not prevent my being
your Henriette--that Henriette who has in her life been guilty of three
escapades, the last of which would have utterly ruined me if it had not
been for you, but which I call a delightful error, since it has been the
cause of my knowing you."
Those words moved me so deeply that I was on the point of throwing myself
at her feet, to entreat her to forgive me for not having shewn her more
respect, but Henriette, who saw the state in which I was, and who wanted
to put an end to the pathetic scene, began to shake our poor captain, who
sat as motionless as a statue, and as if he had been petrified. He felt
ashamed at having treated such a woman as an adventuress, for he knew
that what he now saw was not an illusion. He kept looking at her with
great confusion, and bowing most respectfully, as if he wanted to atone
for his past conduct towards her. As for Henriette, she seemed to say to
him, but without the shadow of a reproach;
"I am glad that you think me worth more than ten sequins."
We sat down to dinner, and from that moment she did the honours of the
table with the perfect ease of a person who is accustomed to fulfil that
difficult duty. She treated me like a beloved husband, and the captain
like a respected friend. The poor Hungarian begged me to tell her that if
he had seen her, as she was now, in Civita Vecchia, when she came out of
the tartan, he should never have dreamed of dispatching his cicerone to
her room.
"Oh! tell him that I do not doubt it. But is it not strange that a poor
little female dress should command more respect than the garb of an
officer?"
"Pray do not abuse the officer's costume, for it is to it that I am
indebted for my happiness."
"Yes," she said, with a loving smile, "as I owe mine to the sbirri of
Cesena."
We remained for a long time at the table, and our delightful conversation
turned upon no other topic than our mutual felicity. If it had not been
for the uneasiness of the poor captain, which at last struck us, we
should never have put a stop either to the dinner or to, our charming
prattle.