I Stop at Ferrara, Where I Have a Comic Adventure--My Arrival in Paris
Precisely at twelve o'clock the peotta landed me at Ponte di Lago Oscuro,
and I immediately took a post-chaise to reach Ferrara in time for dinner.
I put up at St. Mark's Hotel. I was following the waiter up the stairs,
when a joyful uproar, which suddenly burst from a room the door of which
was open, made me curious to ascertain the cause of so much mirth. I
peeped into the room, and saw some twelve persons, men and women, seated
round a well-supplied table. It was a very natural thing, and I was
moving on, when I was stopped by the exclamation, "Ah, here he is!"
uttered by the pretty voice of a woman, and at the same moment, the
speaker, leaving the table, came to me with open arms and embraced me,
saying,
"Quick, quick, a seat for him near me; take his luggage to his room."
A young man came up, and she said to him, "Well, I told you he would
arrive to-day?"
She made me sit near her at the table, after I had been saluted by all
the guests who had risen to do me honour.
"My dear cousin," she said, addressing me, "you must be hungry;" and as
she spoke she squeezed my foot under the table. "Here is my intended
husband whom I beg to introduce to you, as well as my father and
mother-in-law. The other guests round the table are friends of the
family. But, my dear cousin, tell me why my mother has not come with
you?"
At last I had to open my lips!
"Your mother, my dear cousin, will be here in three or four days, at the
latest."
I thought that my newly-found cousin was unknown to me, but when I looked
at her with more attention, I fancied I recollected her features. She was
the Catinella, a dancer of reputation, but I had never spoken to her
before. I easily guessed that she was giving me an impromptu part in a
play of her own composition, and I was to be a 'deux ex machina'.
Whatever is singular and unexpected has always attracted me, and as my
cousin was pretty, I lent myself most willingly to the joke, entertaining
no doubt that she would reward me in an agreeable manner. All I had to do
was to play my part well, but without implicating myself. Therefore,
pretending to be very hungry, I gave her the opportunity of speaking and
of informing me by hints of what I had to know, in order not to make
blunders. Understanding the reason of my reserve, she afforded me the
proof of her quick intelligence by saying sometimes to one person,
sometimes to the other, everything it was necessary for me to know. Thus
I learnt that the wedding could not take place until the arrival of her
mother, who was to bring the wardrobe and the diamonds of my cousin. I
was the precentor going to Turin to compose the music of the opera which
was to be represented at the marriage of the Duke of Savoy. This last
discovery pleased me greatly, because I saw that I should have no
difficulty in taking my departure the next morning, and I began to enjoy
the part I had to play. Yet, if I had not reckoned upon the reward, I
might very well have informed the honourable company that my false cousin
was mad, but, although Catinella was very near thirty, she was very
pretty and celebrated for her intrigues; that was enough, and she could
turn me round her little finger.
The future mother-in-law was seated opposite, and to do me honour she
filled a glass and offered it to me. Already identified with my part in
the comedy, I put forth my hand to take the glass, but seeing that my
hand was somewhat bent, she said to me,
"What is the matter with your hand, sir?"
"Nothing serious, madam; only a slight sprain which a little rest will
soon cure."
At these words, Catinella, laughing heartily, said that she regretted the
accident because it would deprive her friends of the pleasure they would
have enjoyed in hearing me play the harpsichord.
"I am glad to find it a laughing matter, cousin."
"I laugh, because it reminds me of a sprained ankle which I once feigned
to have in order not to dance."
After coffee, the mother-in-law, who evidently understood what was
proper, said that most likely my cousin wanted to talk with me on family
matters, and that we ought to be left alone.
Every one of the guests left the room.
As soon as I was alone with her in my room, which was next to her own she
threw herself on a sofa, and gave way to a most immoderate fit of
laughter.
"Although I only know you by name," she said to me, "I have entire
confidence in you, but you will do well to go away to-morrow. I have been
here for two months without any money. I have nothing but a few dresses
and some linen, which I should have been compelled to sell to defray my
expenses if I had not been lucky enough to inspire the son of the
landlord with the deepest love. I have flattered his passion by promising
to become his wife, and to bring him as a marriage portion twenty
thousand crowns' worth of diamonds which I am supposed to have in Venice,
and which my mother is expected to bring with her. But my mother has
nothing and knows nothing of the affair, therefore she is not likely to
leave Venice."
"But, tell me, lovely madcap, what will be the end of this extravaganza?
I am afraid it will take a tragic turn at the last."
"You are mistaken; it will remain a comedy, and a very amusing one, too.
I am expecting every hour the arrival of Count Holstein, brother of the
Elector of Mainz. He has written to me from Frankfort; he has left that
city, and must by this time have reached Venice. He will take me to the
Fair of Reggio, and if my intended takes it into his head to be angry,
the count will thrash him and pay my bill, but I am determined that he
shall be neither thrashed nor paid. As I go away, I have only to whisper
in his ear that I will certainly return, and it will be all right. I know
my promise to become his wife as soon as I come back will make him
happy."
"That's all very well! You are as witty as a cousin of Satan, but I shall
not wait your return to marry you; our wedding must take place at once."
"What folly! Well, wait until this evening."
"Not a bit of it, for I can almost fancy I hear the count's carriage. If
he should not arrive, we can continue the sport during the night."
"Do you love me?"
"To distraction! but what does it matter? However, your excellent comedy
renders you worthy of adoration. Now, suppose we do not waste our time."
"You are right: it is an episode, and all the more agreeable for being
impromptu."
I can well recollect that I found it a delightful episode. Towards
evening all the family joined us again, a walk was proposed, and we were
on the point of going out, when a carriage drawn by six post-horses
noisily entered the yard. Catinella looked through the window, and
desired to be left alone, saying that it was a prince who had come to see
her. Everybody went away, she pushed me into my room and locked me in. I
went to the window, and saw a nobleman four times as big as myself
getting out of the carriage. He came upstairs, entered the room of the
intended bride, and all that was left to me was the consolation of having
seized fortune by the forelock, the pleasure of hearing their
conversation, and a convenient view, through a crevice in the partition,
of what Catinella contrived to do with that heavy lump of flesh. But at
last the stupid amusement wearied me, for it lasted five hours, which
were employed in amorous caresses, in packing Catinella's rags, in
loading them on the carriage, in taking supper, and in drinking numerous
bumpers of Rhenish wine. At midnight the count left the hotel, carrying
away with him the beloved mistress of the landlord's son.
No one during those long hours had come to my room, and I had not called.
I was afraid of being discovered, and I did not know how far the German
prince would have been pleased if he had found out that he had an
indiscreet witness of the heavy and powerless demonstrations of his
tenderness, which were a credit to neither of the actors, and which
supplied me with ample food for thoughts upon the miseries of mankind.
After the departure of the heroine, catching through the crevice a
glimpse of the abandoned lover, I called out to him to unlock my door.
The poor silly fellow told me piteously that, Catinella having taken the
key with her, it would be necessary to break the door open. I begged him
to have it done at once, because I was hungry. As soon as I was out of my
prison I had my supper, and the unfortunate lover kept me company. He
told me that Catinella had found a moment to promise him that she would
return within six weeks, that she was shedding tears in giving him that
assurance, and that she had kissed him with great tenderness.
"Has the prince paid her expenses?"
"Not at all. We would not have allowed him to do it, even if he had
offered. My future wife would have felt offended, for you can have no
idea of the delicacy of her feelings."
"What does your father say of her departure?"
"My father always sees the worst side of everything; he says that she
will never come back, and my mother shares his opinion rather than mine.
But you, signor maestro, what do you think?"
"That if she has promised to return, she will be sure to keep her word."
"Of course; for if she did not mean to come back, she would not have
given me her promise."
"Precisely; I call that a good argument."
I had for my supper what was left of the meal prepared by the count's
cook, and I drank a bottle of excellent Rhenish wine which Catinella had
juggled away to treat her intended husband, and which the worthy fellow
thought could not have a better destination than to treat his future
cousin. After supper I took post-horses and continued my journey,
assuring the unhappy, forlorn lover that I would do all I could to
persuade my cousin to come back very soon. I wanted to pay my bill, but
he refused to receive any money. I reached Bologna a few minutes after
Catinella, and put up at the same hotel, where I found an opportunity of
telling her all her lover had said. I arrived in Reggio before her, but I
could not speak to her in that city, for she was always in the company of
her potent and impotent lord. After the fair, during which nothing of
importance occurred to me, I left Reggio with my friend Baletti and we
proceeded to Turin, which I wanted to see, for the first time I had gone
to that city with Henriette I had stopped only long enough to change
horses.
I found everything beautiful in Turin, the city, the court, the theatre,
and the women, including the Duchess of Savoy, but I could not help
laughing when I was told that the police of the city was very efficient,
for the streets were full of beggars. That police, however, was the
special care of the king, who was very intelligent; if we are to believe
history, but I confess that I laughed when I saw the ridiculous face of
that sovereign.
I had never seen a king before in my life, and a foolish idea made me
suppose that a king must be preeminent--a very rare being--by his beauty
and the majesty of his appearance, and in everything superior to the rest
of men. For a young Republican endowed with reason, my idea was not,
after all, so very foolish, but I very soon got rid of it when I saw that
King of Sardinia, ugly, hump-backed, morose and vulgar even in his
manners. I then realized that it was possible to be a king without being
entirely a man.
I saw L'Astrua and Gafarello, those two magnificent singers on the stage,
and I admired the dancing of La Geofroi, who married at that time a
worthy dancer named Bodin.
During my stay in Turin, no amorous fancy disturbed the peace of my soul,
except an accident which happened to me with the daughter of my
washerwoman, and which increased my knowledge in physics in a singular
manner. That girl was very pretty, and, without being what might be
called in love with her, I wished to obtain her favours. Piqued at my not
being able to obtain an appointment from her, I contrived one day to
catch her at the bottom of a back staircase by which she used to come to
my room, and, I must confess, with the intention of using a little
violence, if necessary.
Having concealed myself for that purpose at the time I expected her, I
got hold of her by surprise, and, half by persuasion, half by the
rapidity of my attack, she was brought to a right position, and I lost no
time in engaging in action. But at the first movement of the connection a
loud explosion somewhat cooled my ardour, the more so that the young girl
covered her face with her hands as if she wished to hide her shame.
However, encouraging her with a loving kiss, I began again. But, a
report, louder even than the first, strikes at the same moment my ear and
my nose. I continue; a third, a fourth report, and, to make a long matter
short, each movement gives an explosion with as much regularity as a
conductor making the time for a piece of music!
This extraordinary phenomenon, the confusion of the poor girl, our
position--everything, in fact, struck me as so comical, that I burst into
the most immoderate laughter, which compelled me to give up the
undertaking. Ashamed and confused, the young girl ran away, and I did
nothing to hinder her. After that she never had the courage to present
herself before me. I remained seated on the stairs for a quarter of an
hour after she had left me, amused at the funny character of a scene
which even now excites my mirth. I suppose that the young girl was
indebted for her virtue to that singular disease, and most likely, if it
were common to all the fair sex, there would be fewer gallant women,
unless we had different organs; for to pay for one moment of enjoyment at
the expense both of the hearing and of the smell is to give too high a
price.
Baletti, being in a hurry to reach Paris, where great preparations were
being made for the birth of a Duke of Burgundy--for the duchess was near
the time of her delivery--easily persuaded me to shorten my stay in
Turin. We therefore left that city, and in five days we arrived at Lyons,
where I stayed about a week.
Lyons is a very fine city in which at that time there were scarcely three
or four noble houses opened to strangers; but, in compensation, there
were more than a hundred hospitable ones belonging to merchants,
manufacturers, and commission agents, amongst whom was to be found an
excellent society remarkable for easy manners, politeness, frankness, and
good style, without the absurd pride to be met with amongst the nobility
in the provinces, with very few honourable exceptions. It is true that
the standard of good manners is below that of Paris, but one soon gets
accustomed to it. The wealth of Lyons arises from good taste and low
prices, and Fashion is the goddess to whom that city owes its prosperity.
Fashion alters every year, and the stuff, to which the fashion of the day
gives a value equal, say to thirty, is the next year reduced to fifteen
or twenty, and then it is sent to foreign countries where it is bought up
as a novelty.
The manufacturers of Lyons give high salaries to designers of talent; in
that lies the secret of their success. Low prices come from
Competition--a fruitful source of wealth, and a daughter of Liberty.
Therefore, a government wishing to establish on a firm basis the
prosperity of trade must give commerce full liberty; only being careful
to prevent the frauds which private interests, often wrongly understood,
might invent at the expense of public and general interests. In fact, the
government must hold the scales, and allow the citizens to load them as
they please.
In Lyons I met the most famous courtezan of Venice. It was generally
admitted that her equal had never been seen. Her name was Ancilla. Every
man who saw her coveted her, and she was so kindly disposed that she
could not refuse her favours to anyone; for if all men loved her one
after the other, she returned the compliment by loving them all at once,
and with her pecuniary advantages were only a very secondary
consideration.
Venice has always been blessed with courtezans more celebrated by their
beauty than their wit. Those who were most famous in my younger days were
Ancilla and another called Spina, both the daughters of gondoliers, and
both killed very young by the excesses of a profession which, in their
eyes, was a noble one. At the age of twenty-two, Ancilla turned a dancer
and Spina became a singer. Campioni, a celebrated Venetian dancer,
imparted to the lovely Ancilla all the graces and the talents of which
her physical perfections were susceptible, and married her. Spina had for
her master a castrato who succeeded in making of her only a very ordinary
singer, and in the absence of talent she was compelled, in order to get a
living, to make the most of the beauty she had received from nature.
I shall have occasion to speak again of Ancilla before her death. She was
then in Lyons with her husband; they had just returned from England,
where they had been greatly applauded at the Haymarket Theatre. She had
stopped in Lyons only for her pleasure, and, the moment she shewed
herself, she had at her feet the most brilliant young men of the town,
who were the slaves of her slightest caprice. Every day parties of
pleasure, every evening magnificent suppers, and every night a great faro
bank. The banker at the gaming table was a certain Don Joseph Marratti,
the same man whom I had known in the Spanish army under the name of Don
Pepe il Cadetto, and a few years afterwards assumed the name of Afflisio,
and came to such a bad end. That faro bank won in a few days three
hundred thousand francs. In a capital that would not have been considered
a large sum, but in a commercial and industrial city like Lyons it raised
the alarm amongst the merchants, and the Ultramontanes thought of taking
their leave.
It was in Lyons that a respectable individual, whose acquaintance I made
at the house of M. de Rochebaron, obtained for me the favour of being
initiated in the sublime trifles of Freemasonry. I arrived in Paris a
simple apprentice; a few months after my arrival I became companion and
master; the last is certainly the highest degree in Freemasonry, for all
the other degrees which I took afterwards are only pleasing inventions,
which, although symbolical, add nothing to the dignity of master.
No one in this world can obtain a knowledge of everything, but every man
who feels himself endowed with faculties, and can realize the extent of
his moral strength, should endeavour to obtain the greatest possible
amount of knowledge. A well-born young man who wishes to travel and know
not only the world, but also what is called good society, who does not
want to find himself, under certain circumstances, inferior to his
equals, and excluded from participating in all their pleasures, must get
himself initiated in what is called Freemasonry, even if it is only to
know superficially what Freemasonry is. It is a charitable institution,
which, at certain times and in certain places, may have been a pretext
for criminal underplots got up for the overthrow of public order, but is
there anything under heaven that has not been abused? Have we not seen
the Jesuits, under the cloak of our holy religion, thrust into the
parricidal hand of blind enthusiasts the dagger with which kings were to
be assassinated! All men of importance, I mean those whose social
existence is marked by intelligence and merit, by learning or by wealth,
can be (and many of them are) Freemasons: is it possible to suppose that
such meetings, in which the initiated, making it a law never to speak,
'intra muros', either of politics, or of religions, or of governments,
converse only concerning emblems which are either moral or trifling; is
it possible to suppose, I repeat, that those meetings, in which the
governments may have their own creatures, can offer dangers sufficiently
serious to warrant the proscriptions of kings or the excommunications of
Popes?
In reality such proceedings miss the end for which they are undertaken,
and the Pope, in spite of his infallibility, will not prevent his
persecutions from giving Freemasonry an importance which it would perhaps
have never obtained if it had been left alone. Mystery is the essence of
man's nature, and whatever presents itself to mankind under a mysterious
appearance will always excite curiosity and be sought, even when men are
satisfied that the veil covers nothing but a cypher.
Upon the whole, I would advise all well-born young men, who intend to
travel, to become Freemasons; but I would likewise advise them to be
careful in selecting a lodge, because, although bad company cannot have
any influence while inside of the lodge, the candidate must guard against
bad acquaintances.
Those who become Freemasons only for the sake of finding out the secret
of the order, run a very great risk of growing old under the trowel
without ever realizing their purpose. Yet there is a secret, but it is so
inviolable that it has never been confided or whispered to anyone. Those
who stop at the outward crust of things imagine that the secret consists
in words, in signs, or that the main point of it is to be found only in
reaching the highest degree. This is a mistaken view: the man who guesses
the secret of Freemasonry, and to know it you must guess it, reaches that
point only through long attendance in the lodges, through deep thinking,
comparison, and deduction. He would not trust that secret to his best
friend in Freemasonry, because he is aware that if his friend has not
found it out, he could not make any use of it after it had been whispered
in his ear. No, he keeps his peace, and the secret remains a secret.
Everything done in a lodge must be secret; but those who have
unscrupulously revealed what is done in the lodge, have been unable to
reveal that which is essential; they had no knowledge of it, and had they
known it, they certainly would not have unveiled the mystery of the
ceremonies.
The impression felt in our days by the non-initiated is of the same
nature as that felt in former times by those who were not initiated in
the mysteries enacted at Eleusis in honour of Ceres. But the mysteries of
Eleusis interested the whole of Greece, and whoever had attained some
eminence in the society of those days had an ardent wish to take a part
in those mysterious ceremonies, while Freemasonry, in the midst of many
men of the highest merit, reckons a crowd of scoundrels whom no society
ought to acknowledge, because they are the refuse of mankind as far as
morality is concerned.
In the mysteries of Ceres, an inscrutable silence was long kept, owing to
the veneration in which they were held. Besides, what was there in them
that could be revealed? The three words which the hierophant said to the
initiated? But what would that revelation have come to? Only to dishonour
the indiscreet initiate, for they were barbarous words unknown to the
vulgar. I have read somewhere that the three sacred words of the
mysteries of Eleusis meant: Watch, and do no evil. The sacred words and
the secrets of the various masonic degrees are about as criminal.
The initiation in the mysteries of Eleusis lasted nine days. The
ceremonies were very imposing, and the company of the highest. Plutarch
informs us that Alcibiades was sentenced to death and his property
confiscated, because he had dared to turn the mysteries into ridicule in
his house. He was even sentenced to be cursed by the priests and
priestesses, but the curse was not pronounced because one of the
priestesses opposed it, saying:
"I am a priestess to bless and not to curse!"
Sublime words! Lessons of wisdom and of morality which the Pope despises,
but which the Gospel teaches and which the Saviour prescribes.
In our days nothing is important, and nothing is sacred, for our
cosmopolitan philosophers.
Botarelli publishes in a pamphlet all the ceremonies of the Freemasons,
and the only sentence passed on him is:
"He is a scoundrel. We knew that before!"
A prince in Naples, and M. Hamilton in his own house, perform the miracle
of St. Januarius; they are, most likely, very merry over their
performance, and many more with them. Yet the king wears on his royal
breast a star with the following device around the image of St.
Januarius: 'In sanguine foedus'. In our days everything is inconsistent,
and nothing has any meaning. Yet it is right to go ahead, for to stop on
the road would be to go from bad to worse.
We left Lyons in the public diligence, and were five days on our road to
Paris. Baletti had given notice of his departure to his family; they
therefore knew when to expect him. We were eight in the coach and our
seats were very uncomfortable, for it was a large oval in shape, so that
no one had a corner. If that vehicle had been built in a country where
equality was a principle hallowed by the laws, it would not have been a
bad illustration. I thought it was absurd, but I was in a foreign
country, and I said nothing. Besides, being an Italian, would it have
been right for me not to admire everything which was French, and
particularly in France?--Example, an oval diligence: I respected the
fashion, but I found it detestable, and the singular motion of that
vehicle had the same effect upon me as the rolling of a ship in a heavy
sea. Yet it was well hung, but the worst jolting would have disturbed me
less.
As the diligence undulates in the rapidity of its pace, it has been
called a gondola, but I was a judge of gondolas, and I thought that there
was no family likeness between the coach and the Venetian boats which,
with two hearty rowers, glide along so swiftly and smoothly. The effect
of the movement was that I had to throw up whatever was on my stomach. My
travelling companions thought me bad company, but they did not say so. I
was in France and among Frenchmen, who know what politeness is. They only
remarked that very likely I had eaten too much at my supper, and a
Parisian abbe, in order to excuse me, observed that my stomach was weak.
A discussion arose.
"Gentlemen," I said, in my vexation, and rather angrily, "you are all
wrong, for my stomach is excellent, and I have not had any supper."
Thereupon an elderly man told me, with a voice full of sweetness, that I
ought not to say that the gentlemen were wrong, though I might say that
they were not right, thus imitating Cicero, who, instead of declaring to
the Romans that Catilina and the other conspirators were dead, only said
that they had lived.
"Is it not the same thing?"
"I beg your pardon, sir, one way of speaking is polite, the other is
not." And after treating me to a long dissection on politeness, he
concluded by saying, with a smile, "I suppose you are an Italian?"
"Yes, I am, but would you oblige me by telling me how you have found it
out?"
"Oh! I guessed it from the attention with which you have listened to my
long prattle."
Everybody laughed, and, I, much pleased with his eccentricity, began to
coax him. He was the tutor of a young boy of twelve or thirteen years who
was seated near him. I made him give me during the journey lessons in
French politeness, and when we parted he took me apart in a friendly
manner, saying that he wished to make me a small present.
"What is it?"
"You must abandon, and, if I may say so, forget, the particle 'non',
which you use frequently at random. 'Non' is not a French word; instead
of that unpleasant monosyllable, say, 'Pardon'. 'Non' is equal to giving
the lie: never say it, or prepare yourself to give and to receive
sword-stabs every moment."
"I thank you, monsieur, your present is very precious, and I promise you
never to say non again."
During the first fortnight of my stay in Paris, it seemed to me that I
had become the most faulty man alive, for I never ceased begging pardon.
I even thought, one evening at the theatre, that I should have a quarrel
for having begged somebody's pardon in the wrong place. A young fop,
coming to the pit, trod on my foot, and I hastened to say,
"Your pardon, sir."
"Sir, pardon me yourself."
"No, yourself."
"Yourself!"
"Well, sir, let us pardon and embrace one another!" The embrace put a
stop to the discussion.
One day during the journey, having fallen asleep from fatigue in the
inconvenient gondola, someone pushed my arm.
"Ah, sir! look at that mansion!"
"I see it; what of it?"
"Ah! I pray you, do you not find it...."
"I find nothing particular; and you?"
"Nothing wonderful, if it were not situated at a distance of forty
leagues from Paris. But here! Ah! would my 'badauds' of Parisians believe
that such a beautiful mansion can be found forty leagues distant from the
metropolis? How ignorant a man is when he has never travelled!"
"You are quite right."
That man was a Parisian and a 'badaud' to the backbone, like a Gaul in
the days of Caesar.
But if the Parisians are lounging about from morning till night, enjoying
everything around them, a foreigner like myself ought to have been a
greater 'badaud' than they! The difference between us was that, being
accustomed to see things such as they are, I was astonished at seeing
them often covered with a mask which changed their nature, while their
surprise often arose from their suspecting what the mask concealed.
What delighted me, on my arrival in Paris, was the magnificent road made
by Louis XV., the cleanliness of the hotels, the excellent fare they
give, the quickness of the service, the excellent beds, the modest
appearance of the attendant, who generally is the most accomplished girl
of the house, and whose decency, modest manners, and neatness, inspire
the most shameless libertine with respect. Where is the Italian who is
pleased with the effrontery and the insolence of the hotel-waiters in
Italy? In my days, people did not know in France what it was to
overcharge; it was truly the home of foreigners. True, they had the
unpleasantness of often witnessing acts of odious despotism, 'lettres de
cachet', etc.; it was the despotism of a king. Since that time the French
have the despotism of the people. Is it less obnoxious?
We dined at Fontainebleau, a name derived from Fontaine-belle-eau; and
when we were only two leagues from Paris we saw a berlin advancing
towards us. As it came near the diligence, my friend Baletti called out
to the postillions to stop. In the berlin was his mother, who offered me
the welcome given to an expected friend. His mother was the celebrated
actress Silvia, and when I had been introduced to her she said to me;
"I hope, sir, that my son's friend will accept a share of our family
supper this evening."
I accepted gratefully, sat down again in the gondola, Baletti got into
the berlin with his mother, and we continued our journey.
On reaching Paris, I found a servant of Silvia's waiting for me with a
coach; he accompanied me to my lodging to leave my luggage, and we
repaired to Baletti's house, which was only fifty yards distant from my
dwelling.
Baletti presented me to his father, who was known under the name of
Mario. Silvia and Mario were the stage names assumed by M. and Madame
Baletti, and at that time it was the custom in France to call the Italian
actors by the names they had on the stage. 'Bon jour', Monsieur Arlequin;
'bon jour', Monsieur Pantalon: such was the manner in which the French
used to address the actors who personified those characters on the stage.