My Broil With Parisian Justice--Mdlle. Vesian
The youngest daughter of my landlady, Mdlle. Quinson, a young girl
between fifteen and sixteen years of age, was in the habit of often
coming to my room without being called. It was not long before I
discovered that she was in love with me, and I should have thought myself
ridiculous if I had been cruel to a young brunette who was piquant,
lively, amiable, and had a most delightful voice.
During the first four or five months nothing but childish trifles took
place between us; but one night, coming home very late and finding her
fast asleep on my bed, I did not see the necessity of waking her up, and
undressing myself I lay down beside her.... She left me at daybreak.
Mimi had not been gone three hours when a milliner came with a charming
young girl, to invite herself and her friend to breakfast; I thought the
young girl well worth a breakfast, but I was tired and wanted rest, and I
begged them both to withdraw. Soon after they had left me, Madame Quinson
came with her daughter to make my bed. I put my dressing-gown on, and
began to write.
"Ah! the nasty hussies!" exclaims the mother.
"What is the matter, madam?"
"The riddle is clear enough, sir; these sheets are spoiled."
"I am very sorry, my dear madam, but change them, and the evil will be
remedied at once."
She went out of the room, threatening and grumbling,
"Let them come again, and see if I don't take care of them!"
Mimi remained alone with me, and I addressed her some reproaches for her
imprudence. But she laughed, and answered that Love had sent those women
on purpose to protect Innocence! After that, Mimi was no longer under any
restraint, she would come and share my bed whenever she had a fancy to do
so, unless I sent her back to her own room, and in the morning she always
left me in good time. But at the end of four months my beauty informed me
that our secret would soon be discovered.
"I am very sorry," I said to her, "but I cannot help it."
"We ought to think of something."
"Well, do so."
"What can I think of? Well, come what will; the best thing I can do is
not to think of it."
Towards the sixth month she had become so large, that her mother, no
longer doubting the truth, got into a violent passion, and by dint of
blows compelled her to name the father. Mimi said I was the guilty swain,
and perhaps it was not an untruth.
With that great discovery Madame Quinson burst into my room in high
dudgeon. She threw herself on a chair, and when she had recovered her
breath she loaded me with insulting words, and ended by telling me that I
must marry her daughter. At this intimation, understanding her object and
wishing to cut the matter short, I told her that I was already married in
Italy.
"Then why did you come here and get my daughter with child?"
"I can assure you that I did not mean to do so. Besides, how do you know
that I am the father of the child?"
"Mimi says so, and she is certain of it."
"I congratulate her; but I warn you, madam, that I am ready to swear that
I have not any certainty about it."
"What then?"
"Then nothing. If she is pregnant, she will be confined."
She went downstairs, uttering curses and threats: the next day I was
summoned before the commissary of the district. I obeyed the summons, and
found Madame Quinson fully equipped for the battle. The commissary, after
the preliminary questions usual in all legal cases, asked me whether I
admitted myself guilty towards the girl Quinson of the injury of which
the mother, there present personally, complained.
"Monsieur le Commissaire, I beg of you to write word by word the answer
which I am going to give you."
"Very well."
"I have caused no injury whatever to Mimi, the plaintiff's daughter, and
I refer you to the girl herself, who has always had as much friendship
for me as I have had for her."
"But she declares that she is pregnant from your doings."
"That may be, but it is not certain."
"She says it is certain, and she swears that she has never known any
other man."
"If it is so, she is unfortunate; for in such a question a man cannot
trust any woman but his own wife."
"What did you give her in order to seduce her?"
"Nothing; for very far from having seduced her, she has seduced me, and
we agreed perfectly in one moment; a pretty woman does not find it very
hard to seduce me."
"Was she a virgin?"
"I never felt any curiosity about it either before or after; therefore,
sir, I do not know."
"Her mother claims reparation, and the law is against you."
"I can give no reparation to the mother; and as for the law I will obey
it when it has been explained to me, and when I am convinced that I have
been guilty against it."
"You are already convinced. Do you imagine that a man who gets an honest
girl with child in a house of which he is an inmate does not transgress
the laws of society?"
"I admit that to be the case when the mother is deceived; but when that
same mother sends her daughter to the room of a young man, are we not
right in supposing that she is disposed to accept peacefully all the
accidents which may result from such conduct?"
"She sent her daughter to your room only to wait on you."
"And she has waited on me as I have waited on her if she sends her to my
room this evening, and if it is agreeable to Mimi, I will certainly serve
her as well as I can; but I will have nothing to do with her against her
will or out of my room, the rent of which I have always paid punctually."
"You may say what you like, but you must pay the fine."
"I will say what I believe to be just, and I will pay nothing; for there
can be no fine where there is no law transgressed. If I am sentenced to
pay I shall appeal even to the last jurisdiction and until I obtain
justice, for believe me, sir, I know that I am not such an awkward and
cowardly fellow as to refuse my caresses to a pretty woman who pleases
me, and comes to provoke them in my own room, especially when I feel
myself certain of the mother's agreement."
I signed the interrogatory after I had read it carefully, and went away.
The next day the lieutenant of police sent for me, and after he had heard
me, as well as the mother and the daughter, he acquitted me and condemned
Madame Quinson in costs. But I could not after all resist the tears of
Mimi, and her entreaties for me to defray the expenses of her
confinement. She was delivered of a boy, who was sent to the Hotel Dieu
to be brought up at the nation's expense. Soon afterwards Mimi ran away
from her mother's house, and she appeared on the stage at St. Laurent's
Fair. Being unknown, she had no difficulty in finding a lover who took
her for a maiden. I found her very pretty on the stage.
"I did not know," I said to her, "that you were a musician."
"I am a musician about as much as all my companions, not one of whom
knows a note of music. The girls at the opera are not much more clever,
and in spite of that, with a good voice and some taste, one can sing
delightfully."
I advised her to invite Patu to supper, and he was charmed with her. Some
time afterwards, however, she came to a bad end, and disappeared.
The Italian comedians obtained at that time permission to perform
parodies of operas and of tragedies. I made the acquaintance at that
theatre of the celebrated Chantilly, who had been the mistress of the
Marechal de Saxe, and was called Favart because the poet of that name had
married her. She sang in the parody of 'Thetis et Pelee', by M. de
Fontelle, the part of Tonton, amidst deafening applause. Her grace and
talent won the love of a man of the greatest merit, the Abbe de Voisenon,
with whom I was as intimate as with Crebillon. All the plays performed at
the Italian Comedy, under the name of Madame Favart, were written by the
abbe, who became member of the Academie after my departure from Paris. I
cultivated an acquaintance the value of which I could appreciate, and he
honoured me with his friendship. It was at my suggestions that the Abbe
de Voisenon conceived the idea of composing oratorios in poetry; they
were sung for the first time at the Tuileries, when the theatres were
closed in consequence of some religious festival. That amiable abbe, who
had written several comedies in secret, had very poor health and a very
small body; he was all wit and gracefulness, famous for his shrewd
repartees which, although very cutting, never offended anyone. It was
impossible for him to have any enemies, for his criticism only grazed the
skin and never wounded deeply. One day, as he was returning from
Versailles, I asked him the news of the court.
"The king is yawning," he answered, "because he must come to the
parliament to-morrow to hold a bed of justice."
"Why is it called a bed of justice?"
"I do not know, unless it is because justice is asleep during the
proceedings."
I afterwards met in Prague the living portrait of that eminent writer in
Count Francois Hardig, now plenipotentiary of the emperor at the court of
Saxony.
The Abbe de Voisenon introduced me to Fontenelle, who was then
ninety-three years of age. A fine wit, an amiable and learned man,
celebrated for his quick repartees, Fontenelle could not pay a compliment
without throwing kindness and wit into it. I told him that I had come
from Italy on purpose to see him.
"Confess, sir," he said to me, "that you have kept me waiting a very long
time."
This repartee was obliging and critical at the same time, and pointed out
in a delicate and witty manner the untruth of my compliment. He made me a
present of his works, and asked me if I liked the French plays; I told
him that I had seen 'Thetis et Pelee' at the opera. That play was his own
composition, and when I had praised it, he told me that it was a 'tete
pelee'.
"I was at the Theatre Francais last night," I said, "and saw Athalie."
"It is the masterpiece of Racine; Voltaire, has been wrong in accusing me
of having criticized that tragedy, and in attributing to me an epigram,
the author of which has never been known, and which ends with two very
poor lines:
"Pour avoir fait pis qu'Esther,
Comment diable as-to pu faire"
I have been told that M. de Fontenelle had been the tender friend of
Madame du Tencin, that M. d'Alembert was the offspring of their intimacy,
and that Le Rond had only been his foster-father. I knew d'Alembert at
Madame de Graffigny's. That great philosopher had the talent of never
appearing to be a learned man when he was in the company of amiable
persons who had no pretension to learning or the sciences, and he always
seemed to endow with intelligence those who conversed with him.
When I went to Paris for the second time, after my escape from The Leads
of Venice, I was delighted at the idea of seeing again the amiable,
venerable Fontenelle, but he died a fortnight after my arrival, at the
beginning of the year 1757.
When I paid my third visit to Paris with the intention of ending my days
in that capital, I reckoned upon the friendship of M. d'Alembert, but he
died, like Fontenelle, a fortnight after my arrival, towards the end of
1783. Now I feel that I have seen Paris and France for the last time. The
popular effervescence has disgusted me, and I am too old to hope to see
the end of it.
Count de Looz, Polish ambassador at the French court, invited me in 1751
to translate into Italian a French opera susceptible of great
transformations, and of having a grand ballet annexed to the subject of
the opera itself. I chose 'Zoroastre', by M. de Cahusac. I had to adapt
words to the music of the choruses, always a difficult task. The music
remained very beautiful, of course, but my Italian poetry was very poor.
In spite of that the generous sovereign sent me a splendid gold
snuff-box, and I thus contrived at the same time to please my mother very
highly.
It was about that time that Mdlle. Vesian arrived in Paris with her
brother. She was quite young, well educated, beautiful, most amiable, and
a novice; her brother accompanied her. Her father, formerly an officer in
the French army, had died at Parma, his native city. Left an orphan
without any means of support, she followed the advice given by her
friends; she sold the furniture left by her father, with the intention of
going to Versailles to obtain from the justice and from the generosity of
the king a small pension to enable her to live. As she got out of the
diligence, she took a coach, and desired to be taken to some hotel close
by the Italian Theatre; by the greatest chance she was brought to the
Hotel de Bourgogne, where I was then staying myself.
In the morning I was told that there were two young Italians, brother and
sister, who did not appear very wealthy, in the next room to mine.
Italians, young, poor and newly arrived, my curiosity was excited. I went
to the door of their room, I knocked, and a young man came to open it in
his shirt.
"I beg you to excuse me, sir," he said to me, "if I receive you in such a
state."
"I have to ask your pardon myself. I only come to offer you my services,
as a countryman and as a neighbour."
A mattress on the floor told me where the young man had slept; a bed
standing in a recess and hid by curtains made me guess where the sister
was. I begged of her to excuse me if I had presented myself without
enquiring whether she was up.
She answered without seeing me, that the journey having greatly tried her
she had slept a little later than usual, but that she would get up
immediately if I would excuse her for a short time.
"I am going to my room, mademoiselle, and I will come back when you send
for me; my room is next door to your own."
A quarter of an hour after, instead of being sent for, I saw a young and
beautiful person enter my room; she made a modest bow, saying that she
had come herself to return my visit, and that her brother would follow
her immediately.
I thanked her for her visit, begged her to be seated, and I expressed all
the interest I felt for her. Her gratitude shewed itself more by the tone
of her voice than by her words, and her confidence being already
captivated she told me artlessly, but not without some dignity, her short
history or rather her situation, and she concluded by these words:
"I must in the course of the day find a less expensive lodging, for I
only possess six francs."
I asked her whether she had any letters of recommendation, and she drew
out of her pocket a parcel of papers containing seven or eight
testimonials of good conduct and honesty, and a passport.
"Is this all you have, my dear countrywoman?"
"Yes. I intend to call with my brother upon the secretary of war, and I
hope he will take pity on me."
"You do not know anybody here?"
"Not one person, sir; you are the first man in France to whom I have
exposed my situation."
"I am a countryman of yours, and you are recommended to me by your
position as well as by your age; I wish to be your adviser, if you will
permit me."
"Ah, sir! how grateful I would be!"
"Do not mention it. Give me your papers, I will see what is to be done
with them. Do not relate your history to anyone, and do not say one word
about your position. You had better remain at this hotel. Here are two
Louis which I will lend you until you are in a position to return them to
me."
She accepted, expressing her heart-felt gratitude.
Mademoiselle Vesian was an interesting brunette of sixteen. She had a
good knowledge of French and Italian, graceful manners, and a dignity
which endowed her with a very noble appearance. She informed me of her
affairs without meanness, yet without that timidity which seems to arise
from a fear of the person who listens being disposed to take advantage of
the distressing position confided to his honour. She seemed neither
humiliated nor bold; she had hope, and she did not boast of her courage.
Her virtue was by no means ostentatious, but there was in her an air of
modesty which would certainly have put a restraint upon anyone disposed
to fail in respect towards her. I felt the effect of it myself, for in
spite of her beautiful eyes, her fine figure, of the freshness of her
complexion, her transparent skin, her negligee--in one word, all that can
tempt a man and which filled me with burning desires, I did not for one
instant lose control over myself; she had inspired me with a feeling of
respect which helped me to master my senses, and I promised myself not
only to attempt nothing against her virtue, but also not to be the first
man to make her deviate from the right path. I even thought it better to
postpone to another interview a little speech on that subject, the result
of which might be to make me follow a different course.
"You are now in a city," I said to her, "in which your destiny must
unfold itself, and in which all the fine qualities which nature has so
bountifully bestowed upon you, and which may ultimately cause your
fortune, may likewise cause your ruin; for here, by dear countrywoman,
wealthy men despise all libertine women except those who have offered
them the sacrifice of their virtue. If you are virtuous, and are
determined upon remaining so, prepare yourself to bear a great deal of
misery; if you feel yourself sufficiently above what is called prejudice,
if, in one word, you feel disposed to consent to everything, in order to
secure a comfortable position, be very careful not to make a mistake.
Distrust altogether the sweet words which every passionate man will
address to you for the sake of obtaining your favours, for, his passion
once satisfied, his ardour will cool down, and you will find yourself
deceived. Be wary of your adorers; they will give you abundance of
counterfeit coin, but do not trust them far. As far as I am concerned, I
feel certain that I shall never injure you, and I hope to be of some use
to you. To reassure you entirely on my account, I will treat you as if
you were my sister, for I am too young to play the part of your father,
and I would not tell you all this if I did not think you a very charming
person."
Her brother joined us as we were talking together. He was a good-looking
young man of eighteen, well made, but without any style about him; he
spoke little, and his expression was devoid of individuality. We
breakfasted together, and having asked him as we were at table for what
profession he felt an inclination, he answered that he was disposed to do
anything to earn an honourable living.
"Have you any peculiar talent?"
"I write pretty well."
"That is something. When you go out, mistrust everybody; do not enter any
cafe, and never speak to anyone in the streets. Eat your meals in your
room with your sister, and tell the landlady to give you a small closet
to sleep in. Write something in French to-day, let me have it to-morrow
morning, and we will see what can be done. As for you, mademoiselle, my
books are at your disposal, I have your papers; to-morrow I may have some
news to tell you; we shall not see each other again to-day, for I
generally come home very late." She took a few books, made a modest
reverence, and told me with a charming voice that she had every
confidence in me.
Feeling disposed to be useful to her, wherever I went during that day I
spoke of nothing but of her and of her affairs; and everywhere men and
women told me that if she was pretty she could not fail, but that at all
events it would be right for her to take all necessary steps. I received
a promise that the brother should be employed in some office. I thought
that the best plan would be to find some influential lady who would
consent to present Mdlle. Vesian to M. d'Argenson, and I knew that in the
mean time I could support her. I begged Silvia to mention the matter to
Madame de Montconseil, who had very great influence with the secretary of
war. She promised to do so, but she wished to be acquainted with the
young girl.
I returned to the hotel towards eleven o'clock, and seeing that there was
a light still burning in the room of Mdlle. Vesian I knocked at her door.
She opened it, and told me that she had sat up in the hope of seeing me.
I gave her an account of what I had done. I found her disposed to
undertake all that was necessary, and most grateful for my assistance.
She spoke of her position with an air of noble indifference which she
assumed in order to restrain her tears; she succeeded in keeping them
back, but the moisture in her eyes proved all the efforts she was making
to prevent them from falling. We had talked for two hours, and going from
one subject to another I learned that she had never loved, and that she
was therefore worthy of a lover who would reward her in a proper manner
for the sacrifice of her virtue. It would have been absurd to think that
marriage was to be the reward of that sacrifice; the young girl had not
yet made what is called a false step, but she had none of the prudish
feelings of those girls who say that they would not take such a step for
all the gold in the universe, and usually give way before the slightest
attack; all my young friend wanted was to dispose of herself in a proper
and advantageous manner.
I could not help sighing as I listened to her very sensible remarks,
considering the position in which she was placed by an adverse destiny.
Her sincerity was charming to me; I was burning with desire. Lucie of
Pasean came back to my memory; I recollected how deeply I had repented
the injury I had done in neglecting a sweet flower, which another man,
and a less worthy one, had hastened to pluck; I felt myself near a lamb
which would perhaps become the prey of some greedy wolf; and she, with
her noble feelings, her careful education, and a candour which an impure
breath would perhaps destroy for ever, was surely not destined for a lot
of shame. I regretted I was not rich enough to make her fortune, and to
save her honour and her virtue. I felt that I could neither make her mine
in an illegitimate way nor be her guardian angel, and that by becoming
her protector I should do her more harm than good; in one word, instead
of helping her out of the unfortunate position in which she was, I
should, perhaps, only contribute to her entire ruin. During that time I
had her near me, speaking to her in a sentimental way, and not uttering
one single word of love; but I kissed her hand and her arms too often
without coming to a resolution, without beginning a thing which would
have too rapidly come to an end, and which would have compelled me to
keep her for myself; in that case, there would have been no longer any
hope of a fortune for her, and for me no means of getting rid of her. I
have loved women even to madness, but I have always loved liberty better;
and whenever I have been in danger of losing it fate has come to my
rescue.
I had remained about four hours with Mdlle. Vesian, consumed by the most
intense desires, and I had had strength enough to conquer them. She could
not attribute my reserve to a feeling of modesty, and not knowing why I
did not shew more boldness she must have supposed that I was either ill
or impotent. I left her, after inviting her to dinner for the next day.
We had a pleasant dinner, and her brother having gone out for a walk
after our meal we looked together out of the window from which we could
see all the carriages going to the Italian Comedy. I asked her whether
she would like to go; she answered me with a smile of delight, and we
started at once.
I placed her in the amphitheatre where I left her, telling her that we
would meet at the hotel at eleven o'clock. I would not remain with her,
in order to avoid the questions which would have been addressed to me,
for the simpler her toilet was the more interesting she looked.
After I had left the theatre, I went to sup at Silvia's and returned to
the hotel. I was surprised at the sight of an elegant carriage; I
enquired to whom it belonged, and I was told that it was the carriage of
a young nobleman who had supped with Mdlle. Vesian. She was getting on.
The first thing next morning, as I was putting my head out of the window,
I saw a hackney coach stop at the door of the hotel; a young man, well
dressed in a morning costume, came out of it, and a minute after I heard
him enter the room of Mdlle. Vesian. Courage! I had made up my mind; I
affected a feeling of complete indifference in order to deceive myself.
I dressed myself to go out, and while I was at my toilet Vesian came in
and told me that he did not like to go into his sister's room because the
gentleman who had supped with her had just arrived.
"That's a matter of course," I said.
"He is rich and very handsome. He wishes to take us himself to
Versailles, and promises to procure some employment for me."
"I congratulate you. Who is he?"
"I do not know."
I placed in an envelope the papers she had entrusted to me, and I handed
them to him to return to his sister. I then went out. When I came home
towards three o'clock, the landlady gave me a letter which had been left
for me by Mdlle. Vesian, who had left the hotel.
I went to my room, opened the letter, and read the following lines:
"I return the money you have lent me with my best thanks. The Count de
Narbonne feels interested in me, and wishes to assist me and my brother.
I shall inform you of everything, of the house in which he wishes me to
go and live, where he promises to supply me all I want. Your friendship
is very dear to me, and I entreat you not to forget me. My brother
remains at the hotel, and my room belongs to me for the month. I have
paid everything."
"Here is," said I to myself, "a second Lucie de Pasean, and I am a second
time the dupe of my foolish delicacy, for I feel certain that the count
will not make her happy. But I wash my hands of it all."
I went to the Theatre Francais in the evening, and enquired about
Narbonne. The first person I spoke to told me,
"He is the son of a wealthy man, but a great libertine and up to his neck
in debts."
Nice references, indeed! For a week I went to all the theatres and public
places in the hope of making the acquaintance of the count, but I could
not succeed, and I was beginning to forget the adventure when one
morning, towards eight o'clock Vesian calling on me, told me that his
sister was in her room and wished to speak to me. I followed him
immediately. I found her looking unhappy and with eyes red from crying.
She told her brother to go out for a walk, and when he had gone she spoke
to me thus:
"M. de Narbonne, whom I thought an honest man, because I wanted him to be
such, came to sit by me where you had left me at the theatre; he told me
that my face had interested him, and he asked me who I was. I told him
what I had told you. You had promised to think of me, but Narbonne told
me that he did not want your assistance, as he could act by himself. I
believed him, and I have been the dupe of my confidence in him; he has
deceived me; he is a villain."
The tears were choking her: I went to the window so as to let her cry
without restraint: a few minutes after, I came back and I sat down by
her.
"Tell me all, my dear Vesian, unburden your heart freely, and do not
think yourself guilty towards me; in reality I have been wrong more than
you. Your heart would not now be a prey to sorrow if I had not been so
imprudent as to leave you alone at the theatre."
"Alas, sir! do not say so; ought I to reproach you because you thought me
so virtuous? Well, in a few words, the monster promised to shew me every
care, every attention, on condition of my giving him an undeniable, proof
of my affection and confidence--namely, to take a lodging without my
brother in the house of a woman whom he represented as respectable. He
insisted upon my brother not living with me, saying that evil-minded
persons might suppose him to be my lover. I allowed myself to be
persuaded. Unhappy creature! How could I give way without consulting you?
He told me that the respectable woman to whom he would take me would
accompany me to Versailles, and that he would send my brother there so
that we should be both presented to the war secretary. After our first
supper he told me that he would come and fetch me in a hackney coach the
next morning. He presented me with two louis and a gold watch, and I
thought I could accept those presents from a young nobleman who shewed so
much interest in me. The woman to whom he introduced me did not seem to
me as respectable as he had represented her to be. I have passed one week
with her without his doing anything to benefit my position. He would
come, go out, return as he pleased, telling me every day that it would be
the morrow, and when the morrow came there was always some impediment. At
last, at seven o'clock this morning, the woman told me that the count was
obliged to go into the country, that a hackney coach would bring me back
to his hotel, and that he would come and see me on his return. Then,
affecting an air of sadness, she told me that I must give her back the
watch because the count had forgotten to pay the watchmaker for it. I
handed it to her immediately without saying a word, and wrapping the
little I possessed in my handkerchief I came back here, where I arrived
half an hour since."
"Do you hope to see him on his return from the country?"
"To see him again! Oh, Lord! why have I ever seen him?"
She was crying bitterly, and I must confess that no young girl ever moved
me so deeply as she did by the expression of her grief. Pity replaced in
my heart the tenderness I had felt for her a week before. The infamous
proceedings of Narbonne disgusted me to that extent that, if I had known
where to find him alone, I would immediately have compelled him to give
me reparation. Of course, I took good care not to ask the poor girl to
give me a detailed account of her stay in the house of Narbonne's
respectable procurers; I could guess even more than I wanted to know, and
to insist upon that recital would have humiliated Mdlle. Vesian. I could
see all the infamy of the count in the taking back of the watch which
belonged to her as a gift, and which the unhappy girl had earned but too
well. I did all I could to dry her tears, and she begged me to be a
father to her, assuring me that she would never again do anything to
render her unworthy of my friendship, and that she would always be guided
by my advice.
"Well, my dear young friend, what you must do now is not only to forget
the unworthy count and his criminal conduct towards you, but also the
fault of which you have been guilty. What is done cannot be undone, and
the past is beyond remedy; but compose yourself, and recall the air of
cheerfulness which shone on your countenance a week ago. Then I could
read on your face honesty, candour, good faith, and the noble assurance
which arouses sentiment in those who can appreciate its charm. You must
let all those feelings shine again on your features; for they alone can
interest honest people, and you require the general sympathy more than
ever. My friendship is of little importance to you, but you may rely upon
it all the more because I fancy that you have now a claim upon it which
you had not a week ago: Be quite certain, I beg, that I will not abandon
you until your position is properly settled. I cannot at present tell you
more; but be sure that I will think of you."
"Ah, my friend! if you promise to think of me, I ask for no more. Oh!
unhappy creature that I am; there is not a soul in the world who thinks
of me."
She was: so deeply moved that she fainted away. I came to her assistance
without calling anyone, and when she had recovered her consciousness and
some calm, I told her a hundred stories, true or purely imaginary, of the
knavish tricks played in Paris by men who think of nothing but of
deceiving young girls. I told her a few amusing instances in order to
make her more cheerful, and at last I told her that she ought to be
thankful for what had happened to her with Narbonne, because that
misfortune would give her prudence for the future.
During that long tete-a-tete I had no difficulty in abstaining from
bestowing any caresses upon her; I did not even take her hand, for what I
felt for her was a tender pity; and I was very happy when at the end of
two hours I saw her calm and determined upon bearing misfortune like a
heroine.
She suddenly rose from her seat, and, looking at me with an air of modest
trustfulness, she said to me,
"Are, you particularly engaged in any way to-day?"
"No, my dear:"
"Well, then, be good enough to take me somewhere out of Paris; to some
place where I can breathe the fresh air freely; I shall then recover that
appearance which you think I must have to interest in my favour those who
will see me; and if I can enjoy a quiet sleep throughout the next night I
feel I shall be happy again."
"I am grateful to you for your confidence in me. We will go out as soon
as I am dressed. Your brother will return in the mean time."
"Oh, never mind my brother!"
"His presence is, on the contrary, of great importance. Recollect, my
dear Vesian, you must make Narbonne ashamed of his own conduct. You must
consider that if he should happen to hear that, on the very day he
abandoned you, you went into the country alone with me, he would triumph,
and would certainly say that he has only treated you as you deserved. But
if you go with your brother and me your countryman, you give no occasion
for slander."
"I blush not to have made that remark myself. We will wait for my
brother's return."
He was not long in coming back, and having sent for a coach we were on
the point of going, when Baletti called on me. I introduced him to the
young lady, and invited him to join our party. He accepted, and we
started. As my only purpose was to amuse Mdlle. Vesian, I told the
coachman to drive us to the Gros Caillou, where we made an excellent
impromptu dinner, the cheerfulness of the guests making up for the
deficiencies of the servants.
Vesian, feeling his head rather heavy, went out for a walk after dinner,
and I remained alone with his sister and my friend Baletti. I observed
with pleasure that Baletti thought her an agreeable girl, and it gave me
the idea of asking him to teach her dancing. I informed him of her
position, of the reason which had brought her to Paris, of the little
hope there was of her obtaining a pension from the king, and of the
necessity there was for her to do something to earn a living. Baletti
answered that he would be happy to do anything, and when he had examined
the figure and the general conformation of the young girl he said to her,
"I will get Lani to take you for the ballet at the opera."
"Then," I said, "you must begin your lessons tomorrow. Mdlle. Vesian
stops at my hotel."
The young girl, full of wonder at my plan, began to laugh heartily, and
said,
"But can an opera dancer be extemporized like a minister of state? I can
dance the minuet, and my ear is good enough to enable me to go through a
quadrille; but with the exception of that I cannot dance one step."
"Most of the ballet girls," said Baletti, "know no more than you do."
"And how much must I ask from M. Lani? I do not think I can expect much."
"Nothing. The ballet girls are not paid."
"Then where is the advantage for me?" she said, with a sigh; "how shall I
live?"
"Do not think of that. Such as you are, you will soon find ten wealthy
noblemen who will dispute amongst themselves for the honour of making up
for the absence of salary. You have only to make a good choice, and I am
certain that it will not be long before we see you covered with
diamonds."
"Now I understand you. You suppose some great lord will keep me?"
"Precisely; and that will be much better than a pension of four hundred
francs, which you would, perhaps, not obtain without making the same
sacrifice."
Very much surprised, she looked at me to ascertain whether I was serious
or only jesting.
Baletti having left us, I told her it was truly the best thing she could
do, unless she preferred the sad position of waiting-maid to some grand
lady.
"I would not be the 'femme de chambre' even of the queen."
"And 'figurante' at the opera?"
"Much rather."
"You are smiling?"
"Yes, for it is enough to make me laugh. I the mistress of a rich
nobleman, who will cover me with diamonds! Well, I mean to choose the
oldest."
"Quite right, my dear; only do not make him jealous."
"I promise you to be faithful to him. But shall he find a situation for
my brother? However, until I am at the opera, until I have met with my
elderly lover, who will give me the means to support myself?"
"I, my dear girl, my friend Baletti, and all my friends, without other
interest than the pleasure of serving you, but with the hope that you
will live quietly, and that we shall contribute to your happiness. Are
you satisfied?"
"Quite so; I have promised myself to be guided entirely by your advice,
and I entreat you to remain always my best friend."
We returned to Paris at night, I left Mdlle. Vesian at the hotel, and
accompanied Baletti to his mother's. At supper-time, my friend begged
Silvia to speak to M. Lani in favour of our 'protegee', Silvia said that
it was a much better plan than to solicit a miserable pension which,
perhaps, would not be granted. Then we talked of a project which was then
spoken of, namely to sell all the appointments of ballet girls and of
chorus singers at the opera. There was even some idea of asking a high
price for them, for it was argued that the higher the price the more the
girls would be esteemed. Such a project, in the midst of the scandalous
habits and manners of the time, had a sort of apparent wisdom; for it
would have ennobled in a way a class of women who with very few
exceptions seem to glory in being contemptible.
There were, at that time at the opera, several figurantes, singers and
dancers, ugly rather than plain, without any talent, who, in spite of it
all, lived in great comfort; for it is admitted that at the opera a girl
must needs renounce all modesty or starve. But if a girl, newly arrived
there, is clever enough to remain virtuous only for one month, her
fortune is certainly made, because then the noblemen enjoying a
reputation of wisdom and virtue are the only ones who seek to get hold of
her. Those men are delighted to hear their names mentioned in connection
with the newly-arrived beauty; they even go so far as to allow her a few
frolics, provided she takes pride in what they give her, and provided her
infidelities are not too public. Besides, it is the fashion never to go
to sup with one's mistress without giving her notice of the intended
visit, and everyone must admit that it is a very wise custom.
I came back to the hotel towards eleven o'clock, and seeing that Mdlle.
Vesian's room was still open I went in. She was in bed.
"Let me get up," she said, "for I want to speak to you."
"Do not disturb yourself; we can talk all the same, and I think you much
prettier as you are."
"I am very glad of it."
"What have you got to tell me?"
"Nothing, except to speak of the profession I am going to adopt. I am
going to practice virtue in order to find a man who loves it only to
destroy it."
"Quite true; but almost everything is like that in this life. Man always
refers everything to himself, and everyone is a tyrant in his own way. I
am pleased to see you becoming a philosopher."
"How can one become a philosopher?"
"By thinking."
"Must one think a long while?"
"Throughout life."
"Then it is never over?"
"Never; but one improves as much as possible, and obtains the sum of
happiness which one is susceptible of enjoying."
"And how can that happiness be felt?"
"By all the pleasure which the philosopher can procure when he is
conscious of having obtained them by his own exertions, and especially by
getting rid of the many prejudices which make of the majority of men a
troop of grown-up children."
"What is pleasure? What is meant by prejudices?"
"Pleasure is the actual enjoyment of our senses; it is a complete
satisfaction given to all our natural and sensual appetites; and, when
our worn-out senses want repose, either to have breathing time, or to
recover strength, pleasure comes from the imagination, which finds
enjoyment in thinking of the happiness afforded by rest. The philosopher
is a person who refuses no pleasures which do not produce greater
sorrows, and who knows how to create new ones."
"And you say that it is done by getting rid of prejudices? Then tell me
what prejudices are, and what must be done to get rid of them."
"Your question, my dear girl, is not an easy one to answer, for moral
philosophy does not know a more important one, or a more difficult one to
decide; it is a lesson which lasts throughout life. I will tell you in a
few words that we call prejudice every so-called duty for the existence
of which we find no reason in nature."
"Then nature must be the philosopher's principal study?"
"Indeed it is; the most learned of philosophers is the one who commits
the fewest errors."
"What philosopher, in your opinion, has committed the smallest quantity
of errors?"
"Socrates."
"Yet he was in error sometimes?"
"Yes, in metaphysics."
"Oh! never mind that, for I think he could very well manage without that
study."
"You are mistaken; morals are only the metaphysics of physics; nature is
everything, and I give you leave to consider as a madman whoever tells
you that he has made a new discovery in metaphysics. But if I went on, my
dear, I might appear rather obscure to you. Proceed slowly, think; let
your maxims be the consequence of just reasoning, and keep your happiness
in view; in the end you must be happy."
"I prefer the lesson you have just taught me to the one which M. Baletti
will give me to-morrow; for I have an idea that it will weary me, and now
I am much interested."
"How do you know that you are interested?"
"Because I wish you not to leave me."
"Truly, my dear Vesian, never has a philosopher described sympathy better
than you have just done. How happy I feel! How is it that I wish to prove
it by kissing you?"
"No doubt because, to be happy, the soul must agree with the senses."
"Indeed, my divine Vesian? Your intelligence is charming."
"It is your work, dear friend; and I am so grateful to you that I share
your desires."
"What is there to prevent us from satisfying such natural desires? Let us
embrace one another tenderly."
What a lesson in philosophy! It seemed to us such a sweet one, our
happiness was so complete, that at daybreak we were still kissing one
another, and it was only when we parted in the morning that we discovered
that the door of the room had remained open all night.
Baletti gave her a few lessons, and she was received at the opera; but
she did not remain there more than two or three months, regulating her
conduct carefully according to the precepts I had laid out for her. She
never received Narbonne again, and at last accepted a nobleman who proved
himself very different from all others, for the first thing he did was to
make her give up the stage, although it was not a thing according to the
fashion of those days. I do not recollect his name exactly; it was Count
of Tressan or Trean. She behaved in a respectable way, and remained with
him until his death. No one speaks of her now, although she is living in
very easy circumstances; but she is fifty-six, and in Paris a woman of
that age is no longer considered as being among the living.
After she left the Hotel de Bourgogne, I never spoke to her. Whenever I
met her covered with jewels and diamonds, our souls saluted each other
with joy, but her happiness was too precious for me to make any attempt
against it. Her brother found a situation, but I lost sight of him.