I Engage a Box at the Opera, in Spite of Henriette's Reluctance--M.
Dubois Pays Us a Visit and Dines with Us; My Darling Plays Him a
Trick--Henriette Argues on Happiness--We Call on Dubois, and My Wife
Displays Her Marvellous Talent--M. Dutillot The Court gives a Splendid
Entertainment in the Ducal Gardens--A Fatal Meeting--I Have an Interview
with M. D'Antoine, the Favourite of the Infante of Spain
The happiness I was enjoying was too complete to last long. I was fated
to lose it, but I must not anticipate events. Madame de France, wife of
the Infante Don Philip, having arrived in Parma, the opera house was
opened, and I engaged a private box, telling Henriette that I intended to
take her to the theatre every night. She had several times confessed that
she had a great passion for music, and I had no doubt that she would be
pleased with my proposal. She had never yet seen an Italian opera, and I
felt certain that she wished to ascertain whether the Italian music
deserved its universal fame. But I was indeed surprised when she
exclaimed,
"What, dearest! You wish to go every evening to the opera?"
"I think, my love, that, if we did not go, we should give some excuse for
scandal-mongers to gossip. Yet, should you not like it, you know that
there is no need for us to go. Do not think of me, for I prefer our
pleasant chat in this room to the heavenly concert of the seraphs."
"I am passionately fond of music, darling, but I cannot help trembling at
the idea of going out."
"If you tremble, I must shudder, but we ought to go to the opera or leave
Parma. Let us go to London or to any other place. Give your orders, I am
ready to do anything you like."
"Well, take a private box as little exposed as possible."
"How kind you are!"
The box I had engaged was in the second tier, but the theatre being small
it was difficult for a pretty woman to escape observation.
I told her so.
"I do not think there is any danger," she answered; "for I have not seen
the name of any person of my acquaintance in the list of foreigners which
you gave me to read."
Thus did Henriette go to the opera. I had taken care that our box should
not be lighted up. It was an opera-buffa, the music of Burellano was
excellent, and the singers were very good.
Henriette made no use of her opera-glass except to look on the stage, and
nobody paid any attention to us. As she had been greatly pleased with the
finale of the second act, I promised to get it for her, and I asked
Dubois to procure it for me. Thinking that she could play the
harpsichord, I offered to get one, but she told me that she had never
touched that instrument.
On the night of the fourth or fifth performance M. Dubois came to our
box, and as I did not wish to introduce him to my friend, I only asked
what I could do for him. He then handed me the music I had begged him to
purchase for me, and I paid him what it had cost, offering him my best
thanks. As we were just opposite the ducal box, I asked him, for the sake
of saying something, whether he had engraved the portraits of their
highnesses. He answered that he had already engraved two medals, and I
gave him an order for both, in gold. He promised to let me have them, and
left the box. Henriette had not even looked at him, and that was
according to all established rules, as I had not introduced him, but the
next morning he was announced as we were at dinner. M. de la Haye, who
was dining with us, complimented us upon having made the acquaintance of
Dubois, and introduced him to his pupil the moment he came into the room.
It was then right for Henriette to welcome him, which she did most
gracefully.
After she had thanked him for the 'partizione', she begged he would get
her some other music, and the artist accepted her request as a favour
granted to him.
"Sir," said Dubois to me, "I have taken the liberty of bringing the
medals you wished to have; here they are."
On one were the portraits of the Infante and his wife, on the other was
engraved only the head of Don Philip. They were both beautifully
engraved, and we expressed our just admiration. "The workmanship is
beyond all price," said Henriette, "but the gold can be bartered for
other gold." "Madam," answered the modest artist, "the medals weight
sixteen sequins." She gave him the amount immediately, and invited him to
call again at dinner-time. Coffee was just brought in at that moment, and
she asked him to take it with us. Before sweetening his cup, she enquired
whether he liked his coffee very sweet.
"Your taste, madam," answered the hunchback, gallantly, "is sure to be
mine."
"Then you have guessed that I always drink coffee without sugar. I am
glad we have that taste in common."
And she gracefully offered him the cup of coffee without sugar. She then
helped De la Haye and me, not forgetting to put plenty of sugar in our
cups, and she poured out one for herself exactly like the one she handed
to Dubois. It was much ado for me not to laugh, for my mischievous
French-woman, who liked her coffee in the Parisian fashion, that is to
say very sweet, was sipping the bitter beverage with an air of delight
which compelled the director of the Mint to smile under the infliction.
But the cunning hunchback was even with her; accepting the penalty of his
foolish compliment, and praising the good quality of the coffee, he
boldly declared that it was the only way to taste the delicious aroma of
the precious berry.
When Dubois and De la Haye had left us, we both laughed at the trick.
"But," said I to Henriette, "you will be the first victim of your
mischief, for whenever he dines with us, you must keep up the joke, in
order not to betray yourself."
"Oh! I can easily contrive to drink my coffee well sweetened, and to make
him drain the bitter cup."
At the end of one month, Henriette could speak Italian fluently, and it
was owing more to the constant practice she had every day with my cousin
Jeanneton, who acted as her maid, than to the lessons of Professor de la
Haye. The lessons only taught her the rules, and practice is necessary to
acquire a language. I have experienced it myself. I learned more French
during the too short period that I spent so happily with my charming
Henriette than in all the lessons I had taken from Dalacqua.
We had attended the opera twenty times without making any acquaintance,
and our life was indeed supremely happy. I never went out without
Henriette, and always in a carriage; we never received anyone, and nobody
knew us. Dubois was the only person, since the departure of the good
Hungarian, who sometimes dined with us; I do not reckon De la Haye, who
was a daily guest at our table. Dubois felt great curiosity about us, but
he was cunning and did not shew his curiosity; we were reserved without
affectation, and his inquisitiveness was at fault. One day he mentioned
to us that the court of the Infante of Parma was very brilliant since the
arrival of Madame de France, and that there were many foreigners of both
sexes in the city. Then, turning towards Henriette, he said to her;
"Most of the foreign ladies whom we have here are unknown to us."
"Very likely, many of them would not shew themselves if they were known."
"Very likely, madam, as you say, but I can assure you that, even if their
beauty and the richness of their toilet made them conspicuous, our
sovereigns wish for freedom. I still hope, madam, that we shall have the
happiness of seeing you at the court of the duke."
"I do not think so, for, in my opinion, it is superlatively ridiculous
for a lady to go to the court without being presented, particularly if
she has a right to be so."
The last words, on which Henriette had laid a little more stress than
upon the first part of her answer, struck our little hunchback dumb, and
my friend, improving her opportunity, changed the subject of
conversation.
When he had gone we enjoyed the check she had thus given to the
inquisitiveness of our guest, but I told Henriette that, in good
conscience, she ought to forgive all those whom she rendered curious,
because.... she cut my words short by covering me with loving kisses.
Thus supremely happy, and finding in one another constant satisfaction,
we would laugh at those morose philosophers who deny that complete
happiness can be found on earth.
"What do they mean, darling--those crazy fools--by saying that happiness
is not lasting, and how do they understand that word? If they mean
everlasting, immortal, unintermitting, of course they are right, but the
life of man not being such, happiness, as a natural consequence, cannot
be such either. Otherwise, every happiness is lasting for the very reason
that it does exist, and to be lasting it requires only to exist. But if
by complete felicity they understand a series of varied and
never-interrupted pleasures, they are wrong, because, by allowing after
each pleasure the calm which ought to follow the enjoyment of it, we have
time to realize happiness in its reality. In other words those necessary
periods of repose are a source of true enjoyment, because, thanks to
them, we enjoy the delight of recollection which increases twofold the
reality of happiness. Man can be happy only when in his own mind he
realizes his happiness, and calm is necessary to give full play to his
mind; therefore without calm man would truly never be completely happy,
and pleasure, in order to be felt, must cease to be active. Then what do
they mean by that word lasting?
"Every day we reach a moment when we long for sleep, and, although it be
the very likeness of non-existence, can anyone deny that sleep is a
pleasure? No, at least it seems to me that it cannot be denied with
consistency, for, the moment it comes to us, we give it the preference
over all other pleasures, and we are grateful to it only after it has
left us.
"Those who say that no one can be happy throughout life speak likewise
frivolously. Philosophy teaches the secret of securing that happiness,
provided one is free from bodily sufferings. A felicity which would thus
last throughout life could be compared to a nosegay formed of a thousand
flowers so beautifully, so skillfully blended together, that it would
look one single flower. Why should it be impossible for us to spend here
the whole of our life as we have spent the last month, always in good
health, always loving one another, without ever feeling any other want or
any weariness? Then, to crown that happiness, which would certainly be
immense, all that would be wanted would be to die together, in an
advanced age, speaking to the last moment of our pleasant recollections.
Surely that felicity would have been lasting. Death would not interrupt
it, for death would end it. We could not, even then, suppose ourselves
unhappy unless we dreaded unhappiness after death, and such an idea
strikes me as absurd, for it is a contradiction of the idea of an
almighty and fatherly tenderness."
It was thus that my beloved Henriette would often make me spend
delightful hours, talking philosophic sentiment. Her logic was better
than that of Cicero in his Tusculan Disputations, but she admitted that
such lasting felicity could exist only between two beings who lived
together, and loved each other with constant affection, healthy in mind
and in body, enlightened, sufficiently rich, similar in tastes, in
disposition, and in temperament. Happy are those lovers who, when their
senses require rest, can fall back upon the intellectual enjoyments
afforded by the mind! Sweet sleep then comes, and lasts until the body
has recovered its general harmony. On awaking, the senses are again
active and always ready to resume their action.
The conditions of existence are exactly the same for man as for the
universe, I might almost say that between them there is perfect identity,
for if we take the universe away, mankind no longer exists, and if we
take mankind away, there is no longer an universe; who could realize the
idea of the existence of inorganic matter? Now, without that idea, 'nihil
est', since the idea is the essence of everything, and since man alone
has ideas. Besides, if we abstract the species, we can no longer imagine
the existence of matter, and vice versa.
I derived from Henriette as great happiness as that charming woman
derived from me. We loved one another with all the strength of our
faculties, and we were everything to each other. She would often repeat
those pretty lines of the good La, Fontaine:
'Soyez-vous l'un a l'autre un monde toujours beau,
Toujours divers, toujours nouveau;
Tenez-vous lieu de tout; comptez pour rien le reste.'
And we did not fail to put the advice into practice, for never did a
minute of ennui or of weariness, never did the slightest trouble, disturb
our bliss.
The day after the close of the opera, Dubois, who was dining with us,
said that on the following day he was entertaining the two first artists,
'primo cantatore' and 'prima cantatrice', and added that, if we liked to
come, we would hear some of their best pieces, which they were to sing in
a lofty hall of his country-house particularly adapted to the display of
the human voice. Henriette thanked him warmly, but she said that, her
health being very delicate, she could not engage herself beforehand, and
she spoke of other things.
When we were alone, I asked her why she had refused the pleasure offered
by Dubois.
"I should accept his invitation," she answered, "and with delight, if I
were not afraid of meeting at his house some person who might know me,
and would destroy the happiness I am now enjoying with you."
"If you have any fresh motive for dreading such an occurrence, you are
quite right, but if it is only a vague, groundless fear, my love, why
should you deprive yourself of a real and innocent pleasure? If you knew
how pleased I am when I see you enjoy yourself, and particularly when I
witness your ecstacy in listening to fine music!"
"Well, darling, I do not want to shew myself less brave than you. We will
go immediately after dinner. The artists will not sing before. Besides,
as he does not expect us, he is not likely to have invited any person
curious to speak to me. We will go without giving him notice of our
coming, without being expected, and as if we wanted to pay him a friendly
visit. He told us that he would be at his country-house, and Caudagna
knows where it is."
Her reasons were a mixture of prudence and of love, two feelings which
are seldom blended together. My answer was to kiss her with as much
admiration as tenderness, and the next day at four o'clock in the
afternoon we paid our visit to M. Dubois. We were much surprised, for we
found him alone with a very pretty girl, whom he presented to us as his
niece.
"I am delighted to see you," he said, "but as I did not expect to see you
I altered my arrangements, and instead of the dinner I had intended to
give I have invited my friends to supper. I hope you will not refuse me
the honour of your company. The two virtuosi will soon be here."
We were compelled to accept his invitation.
"Will there be many guests?" I enquired.
"You will find yourselves in the midst of people worthy of you," he
answered, triumphantly. "I am only sorry that I have not invited any
ladies."
This polite remark, which was intended for Henriette, made her drop him a
curtsy, which she accompanied with a smile. I was pleased to read
contentment on her countenance, but, alas! she was concealing the painful
anxiety which she felt acutely. Her noble mind refused to shew any
uneasiness, and I could not guess her inmost thoughts because I had no
idea that she had anything to fear.
I should have thought and acted differently if I had known all her
history. Instead of remaining in Parma I should have gone with her to
London, and I know now that she would have been delighted to go there.
The two artists arrived soon afterwards; they were the 'primo cantatore'
Laschi, and the 'prima donna' Baglioni, then a very pretty woman. The
other guests soon followed; all of them were Frenchmen and Spaniards of a
certain age. No introductions took place, and I read the tact of the
witty hunchback in the omission, but as all the guests were men used to
the manners of the court, that neglect of etiquette did not prevent them
from paying every honour to my lovely friend, who received their
compliments with that ease and good breeding which are known only in
France, and even there only in the highest society, with the exception,
however, of a few French provinces in which the nobility, wrongly called
good society, shew rather too openly the haughtiness which is
characteristic of that class.
The concert began by a magnificent symphony, after which Laschi and
Baglioni sang a duet with great talent and much taste. They were followed
by a pupil of the celebrated Vandini, who played a concerto on the
violoncello, and was warmly applauded.
The applause had not yet ceased when Henriette, leaving her seat, went up
to the young artist, and told him, with modest confidence, as she took
the violoncello from him, that she could bring out the beautiful tone of
the instrument still better. I was struck with amazement. She took the
young man's seat, placed the violoncello between her knees, and begged
the leader of the orchestra to begin the concerto again. The deepest
silence prevailed. I was trembling all over, and almost fainting.
Fortunately every look was fixed upon Henriette, and nobody thought of
me. Nor was she looking towards me, she would not have then ventured even
one glance, for she would have lost courage, if she had raised her
beautiful eyes to my face. However, not seeing her disposing herself to
play, I was beginning to imagine that she had only been indulging in a
jest, when she suddenly made the strings resound. My heart was beating
with such force that I thought I should drop down dead.
But let the reader imagine my situation when, the concerto being over,
well-merited applause burst from every part of the room! The rapid change
from extreme fear to excessive pleasure brought on an excitement which
was like a violent fever. The applause did not seem to have any effect
upon Henriette, who, without raising her eyes from the notes which she
saw for the first time, played six pieces with the greatest perfection.
As she rose from her seat, she did not thank the guests for their
applause, but, addressing the young artist with affability, she told him,
with a sweet smile, that she had never played on a finer instrument.
Then, curtsying to the audience, she said,
"I entreat your forgiveness for a movement of vanity which has made me
encroach on your patience for half an hour."
The nobility and grace of this remark completely upset me, and I ran out
to weep like a child, in the garden where no one could see me.
"Who is she, this Henriette?" I said to myself, my heart beating, and my
eyes swimming with tears of emotion, "what is this treasure I have in my
possession?"
My happiness was so immense that I felt myself unworthy of it.
Lost in these thoughts which enhanced the pleasure of any tears, I should
have stayed for a long time in the garden if Dubois had not come out to
look for me. He felt anxious about me, owing to my sudden disappearance,
and I quieted him by saying that a slight giddiness had compelled me to
come out to breathe the fresh air.
Before re-entering the room, I had time to dry my tears, but my eyelids
were still red. Henriette, however, was the only one to take notice of
it, and she said to me,
"I know, my darling, why you went into the garden!"
She knew me so well that she could easily guess the impression made on my
heart by the evening's occurrence.
Dubois had invited the most amiable noblemen of the court, and his supper
was dainty and well arranged. I was seated opposite Henriette who was, as
a matter of course, monopolizing the general attention, but she would
have met with the same success if she had been surrounded by a circle of
ladies whom she would certainly have thrown into the shade by her beauty,
her wit, and the distinction of her manners. She was the charm of that
supper by the animation she imparted to the conversation. M. Dubois said
nothing, but he was proud to have such a lovely guest in his house. She
contrived to say a few gracious words to everyone, and was shrewd enough
never to utter something witty without making me take a share in it. On
my side, I openly shewed my submissiveness, my deference, and my respect
for that divinity, but it was all in vain. She wanted everybody to know
that I was her lord and master. She might have been taken for my wife,
but my behaviour to her rendered such a supposition improbable.
The conversation having fallen on the respective merits of the French and
Spanish nations, Dubois was foolish enough to ask Henriette to which she
gave preference.
It would have been difficult to ask a more indiscreet question,
considering that the company was composed almost entirely of Frenchmen
and Spaniards in about equal proportion. Yet my Henriette turned the
difficulty so cleverly that the Frenchmen would have liked to be
Spaniards, and 'vice versa'. Dubois, nothing daunted, begged her to say
what she thought of the Italians. The question made me tremble. A certain
M. de la Combe, who was seated near me, shook his head in token of
disapprobation, but Henriette did not try to elude the question.
"What can I say about the Italians," she answered, "I know only one? If I
am to judge them all from that one my judgment must certainly be most
favourable to them, but one single example is not sufficient to establish
the rule."
It was impossible to give a better answer, but as my readers may well
imagine, I did not appear to have heard it, and being anxious to prevent
any more indiscreet questions from Dubois I turned the conversation into
a different channel.
The subject of music was discussed, and a Spaniard asked Henriette
whether she could play any other instrument besides the violoncello.
"No," she answered, "I never felt any inclination for any other. I
learned the violoncello at the convent to please my mother, who can play
it pretty well, and without an order from my father, sanctioned by the
bishop, the abbess would never have given me permission to practise it."
"What objection could the abbess make?"
"That devout spouse of our Lord pretended that I could not play that
instrument without assuming an indecent position."
At this the Spanish guests bit their lips, but the Frenchmen laughed
heartily, and did not spare their epigrams against the over-particular
abbess.
After a short silence, Henriette rose, and we all followed her example.
It was the signal for breaking up the party, and we soon took our leave.
I longed to find myself alone with the idol of my soul. I asked her a
hundred questions without waiting for the answers.
"Ah! you were right, my own Henriette, when you refused to go to that
concert, for you knew that you would raise many enemies against me. I am
certain that all those men hate me, but what do I care? You are my
universe! Cruel darling, you almost killed me with your violoncello,
because, having no idea of your being a musician, I thought you had gone
mad, and when I heard you I was compelled to leave the room in order to
weep undisturbed. My tears relieved my fearful oppression. Oh! I entreat
you to tell me what other talents you possess. Tell me candidly, for you
might kill me if you brought them out unexpectedly, as you have done this
evening."
"I have no other accomplishments, my best beloved. I have emptied my bag
all at once. Now you know your Henriette entirely. Had you not chanced to
tell me about a month ago that you had no taste for music, I would have
told you that I could play the violoncello remarkably well, but if I had
mentioned such a thing, I know you well enough to be certain that you
would have bought an instrument immediately, and I could not, dearest,
find pleasure in anything that would weary you."
The very next morning she had an excellent violoncello, and, far from
wearying me, each time she played she caused me a new and greater
pleasure. I believe that it would be impossible even to a man disliking
music not to become passionately fond of it, if that art were practised
to perfection by the woman he adores.
The 'vox humana' of the violoncello; the king of instruments, went to my
heart every time that my beloved Henriette performed upon it. She knew I
loved to hear her play, and every day she afforded me that pleasure. Her
talent delighted me so much that I proposed to her to give some concerts,
but she was prudent enough to refuse my proposal. But in spite of all her
prudence we had no power to hinder the decrees of fate.
The fatal hunchback came the day after his fine supper to thank us and to
receive our well-merited praises of his concert, his supper, and the
distinction of his guests.
"I foresee, madam," he said to Henriette, "all the difficulty I shall
have in defending myself against the prayers of all my friends, who will
beg of me to introduce them to you."
"You need not have much trouble on that score: you know that I never,
receive anyone."
Dubois did not again venture upon speaking of introducing any friend.
On the same day I received a letter from young Capitani, in which he
informed me that, being the owner of St. Peter's knife and sheath, he had
called on Franzia with two learned magicians who had promised to raise
the treasure out of the earth, and that to his great surprise Franzia had
refused to receive him: He entreated me to write to the worthy fellow,
and to go to him myself if I wanted to have my share of the treasure. I
need not say that I did not comply with his wishes, but I can vouch for
the real pleasure I felt in finding that I had succeeded in saving that
honest and simple farmer from the impostors who would have ruined him.
One month was gone since the great supper given by Dubois. We had passed
it in all the enjoyment which can be derived both from the senses and the
mind, and never had one single instant of weariness caused either of us
to be guilty of that sad symptom of misery which is called a yawn. The
only pleasure we took out of doors was a drive outside of the city when
the weather was fine. As we never walked in the streets, and never
frequented any public place, no one had sought to make our acquaintance,
or at least no one had found an opportunity of doing so, in spite of all
the curiosity excited by Henriette amongst the persons whom we had
chanced to meet, particularly at the house of Dubois. Henriette had
become more courageous, and I more confident, when we found that she had
not been recognized by any one either at that supper or at the theatre.
She only dreaded persons belonging to the high nobility.
One day as we were driving outside the Gate of Colorno, we met the duke
and duchess who were returning to Parma. Immediately after their carriage
another vehicle drove along, in which was Dubois with a nobleman unknown
to us. Our carriage had only gone a few yards from theirs when one of our
horses broke down. The companion of Dubois immediately ordered his
coachman to stop in order to send to our assistance. Whilst the horse was
raised again, he came politely to our carriage, and paid some civil
compliment to Henriette. M. Dubois, always a shrewd courtier and anxious
to shew off at the expense of others, lost no time in introducing him as
M. Dutillot, the French ambassador. My sweetheart gave the conventional
bow. The horse being all right again, we proceeded on our road after
thanking the gentlemen for their courtesy. Such an every-day occurrence
could not be expected to have any serious consequences, but alas! the
most important events are often the result of very trifling
circumstances!
The next day, Dubois breakfasted with us. He told us frankly that M.
Dutillot had been delighted at the fortunate chance which had afforded
him an opportunity of making our acquaintance, and that he had entreated
him to ask our permission to call on us.
"On madam or on me?" I asked at once.
"On both."
"Very well, but one at a time. Madam, as you know, has her own room and I
have mine."
"Yes, but they are so near each other!"
"Granted, yet I must tell you that, as far as I am concerned, I should
have much pleasure in waiting upon his excellency if he should ever wish
to communicate with me, and you will oblige me by letting him know it. As
for madam, she is here, speak to her, my dear M. Dubois, for I am only
her very humble servant."
Henriette assumed an air of cheerful politeness, and said to him,
"Sir, I beg you will offer my thanks to M. Dutillot, and enquire from him
whether he knows me."
"I am certain, madam," said the hunchback, "that he does not."
"You see he does not know me, and yet he wishes to call on me. You must
agree with me that if I accepted his visits I should give him a singular
opinion of my character. Be good enough to tell him that, although known
to no one and knowing no one, I am not an adventuress, and therefore I
must decline the honour of his visits."
Dubois felt that he had taken a false step, and remained silent. We never
asked him how the ambassador had received our refusal.
Three weeks after the last occurrence, the ducal court residing then at
Colorno, a great entertainment was given in the gardens which were to be
illuminated all night. Everybody had permission to walk about the
gardens. Dubois, the fatal hunchback appointed by destiny, spoke so much
of that festival, that we took a fancy to see it. Always the same story
of Adam's apple. Dubois accompanied us. We went to Colorno the day before
the entertainment, and put up at an inn.
In the evening we walked through the gardens, in which we happened to
meet the ducal family and suite. According to the etiquette of the French
court, Madame de France was the first to curtsy to Henriette, without
stopping. My eyes fell upon a gentleman walking by the side of Don Louis,
who was looking at my friend very attentively. A few minutes after, as we
were retracing our steps, we came across the same gentleman who, after
bowing respectfully to us, took Dubois aside. They conversed together for
a quarter of an hour, following us all the time, and we were passing out
of the gardens, when the gentleman, coming forward, and politely
apologizing to me, asked Henriette whether he had the honour to be known
to her.
"I do not recollect having ever had the honour of seeing you before."
"That is enough, madam, and I entreat you to forgive me."
Dubois informed us that the gentleman was the intimate friend of the
Infante Don Louis, and that, believing he knew madam, he had begged to be
introduced. Dubois had answered that her name was D'Arci, and that, if he
was known to the lady, he required no introduction. M. d'Antoine said
that the name of D'Arci was unknown to him, and that he was afraid of
making a mistake. "In that state of doubt," added Dubois, "and wishing to
clear it, he introduced himself, but now he must see that he was
mistaken."
After supper, Henriette appeared anxious. I asked her whether she had
only pretended not to know M. d'Antoine.
"No, dearest, I can assure you. I know his name which belongs to an
illustrious family of Provence, but I have never seen him before."
"Perhaps he may know you?"
"He might have seen me, but I am certain that he never spoke to me, or I
would have recollected him."
"That meeting causes me great anxiety, and it seems to have troubled
you."
"I confess it has disturbed my mind."
"Let us leave Parma at once and proceed to Genoa. We will go to Venice as
soon as my affairs there are settled."
"Yes, my dear friend, we shall then feel more comfortable. But I do not
think we need be in any hurry."
We returned to Parma, and two days afterwards my servant handed me a
letter, saying that the footman who had brought it was waiting in the
ante-room.
"This letter," I said to Henriette, "troubles me."
She took it, and after she had read it--she gave it back to me, saying,
"I think M. d'Antoine is a man of honour, and I hope that we may have
nothing to fear."
The letter ran as, follows:
"Either at your hotel or at my residence, or at any other place you may
wish to appoint, I entreat you, sir, to give me an opportunity of
conversing with you on a subject which must be of the greatest importance
to you.
"I have the honour to be, etc.
"D'ANTOINE."
It was addressed M. Farusi.
"I think I must see him," I said, "but where?"
"Neither here nor at his residence, but in the ducal gardens. Your answer
must name only the place and the hour of the meeting."
I wrote to M. d'Antoine that I would see him at half-past eleven in the
ducal gardens, only requesting him to appoint another hour in case mine
was not convenient to him.
I dressed myself at once in order to be in good time, and meanwhile we
both endeavoured, Henriette and I, to keep a cheerful countenance, but we
could not silence our sad forebodings. I was exact to my appointment and
found M. d'Antoine waiting for me. As soon as we were together, he said
to me,
"I have been compelled, sir, to beg from you the favour of an interview,
because I could not imagine any surer way to get this letter to Madame
d'Arci's hands. I entreat you to deliver it to her, and to excuse me if I
give it you sealed. Should I be mistaken, my letter will not even require
an answer, but should I be right, Madame d'Arci alone can judge whether
she ought to communicate it to you. That is my reason for giving it to
you sealed. If you are truly her friend, the contents of that letter must
be as interesting to you as to her. May I hope, sir, that you will be
good enough to deliver it to her?"
"Sir, on my honour I will do it."
We bowed respectfully to each other, and parted company. I hurried back
to the hotel.