yourself in a cloak, pull a broad-brimmed hat over your eyes, and be
on the Rue du Corso, in front of the Hotel d’Espagne, about ten o’clock
to-night.’
“‘I will be there,’ he replied, putting two louis in the duenna’s
wrinkled hand.
“He rushed from his box, after a sign of intelligence to La Zambinella,
who lowered her voluptuous eyelids modestly, like a woman overjoyed to
be understood at last. Then he hurried home, in order to borrow from
his wardrobe all the charms it could loan him. As he left the theatre, a
stranger grasped his arm.
“‘Beware, Signor Frenchman,’ he said in his ear. ‘This is a matter
of life and death. Cardinal Cicognara is her protector, and he is no
trifler.’
“If a demon had placed the deep pit of hell between Sarrasine and La
Zambinella, he would have crossed it with one stride at that moment.
Like the horses of the immortal gods described by Homer, the sculptor’s
love had traversed vast spaces in a twinkling.
“‘If death awaited me on leaving the house, I would go the more
quickly,’ he replied.
“‘_Poverino!_’ cried the stranger, as he disappeared.
“To talk of danger to a man in love is to sell him pleasure. Sarrasine’s
valet had never seen his master so painstaking in the matter of dress.
His finest sword, a gift from Bouchardon, the bow-knot Clotilde gave
him, his coat with gold braid, his waistcoat of cloth of silver, his
gold snuff-box, his valuable watch, everything was taken from its place,
and he arrayed himself like a maiden about to appear before her first
lover. At the appointed hour, drunk with love and boiling over with
hope, Sarrasine, his nose buried in his cloak, hurried to the rendezvous
appointed by the old woman. She was waiting.
“‘You are very late,’ she said. ‘Come.’
“She led the Frenchman through several narrow streets and stopped
in front of a palace of attractive appearance. She knocked; the door
opened. She led Sarrasine through a labyrinth of stairways, galleries,
and apartments which were lighted only by uncertain gleams of moonlight,
and soon reached a door through the cracks of which stole a bright
light, and from which came the joyous sound of several voices. Sarrasine
was suddenly blinded when, at a word from the old woman, he was admitted
to that mysterious apartment and found himself in a salon as brilliantly
lighted as it was sumptuously furnished; in the centre stood a
bountifully supplied table, laden with inviolable bottles, with laughing
decanters whose red facets sparkled merrily. He recognized the singers
from the theatre, male and female, mingled with charming women, all
ready to begin an artists’ spree and waiting only for him. Sarrasine
restrained a feeling of displeasure and put a good face on the matter.
He had hoped for a dimly lighted chamber, his mistress leaning over a
brazier, a jealous rival within two steps, death and love, confidences
exchanged in low tones, heart to heart, hazardous kisses, and faces so
near together that La Zambinella’s hair would have touched caressingly
his desire-laden brow, burning with happiness.
“‘_Vive la folie!_’ he cried. ‘_Signori e belle donne_, you will allow
me to postpone my revenge and bear witness to my gratitude for the
welcome you offer a poor sculptor.’
“After receiving congratulations not lacking in warmth from most of
those present, whom he knew by sight, he tried to approach the couch on
which La Zambinella was nonchalantly reclining. Ah! how his heart beat
when he spied a tiny foot in one of those slippers which--if you will
allow me to say so, madame--formerly imparted to a woman’s feet such a
coquettish, voluptuous look that I cannot conceive how men could resist
them. Tightly fitting white stockings with green clocks, short skirts,
and the pointed, high-heeled slippers of Louis XV.’s time contributed
somewhat, I fancy, to the demoralization of Europe and the clergy.”
“Somewhat!” exclaimed the marchioness. “Have you read nothing, pray?”
“La Zambinella,” I continued, smiling, “had boldly crossed her legs,
and as she prattled swung the upper one, a duchess’ attitude very well
suited to her capricious type of beauty, overflowing with a certain
attractive suppleness. She had laid aside her stage costume, and wore a
waist which outlined a slender figure, displayed to the best advantage
by a _panier_ and a satin dress embroidered with blue flowers. Her
breast, whose treasures were concealed by a coquettish arrangement of
lace, was of a gleaming white. Her hair was dressed almost like Madame
du Barry’s; her face, although overshadowed by a large cap, seemed only
the daintier therefor, and the powder was very becoming to her. She
smiled graciously at the sculptor. Sarrasine, disgusted beyond measure
at finding himself unable to speak to her without witnesses, courteously
seated himself beside her, and discoursed of music, extolling her
prodigious talent; but his voice trembled with love and fear and hope.
“‘What do you fear?’ queried Vitagliani, the most celebrated singer in
the troupe. ‘Go on, you have no rival here to fear.’
“After he had said this the tenor smiled silently. The lips of all the
guests repeated that smile, in which there was a lurking expression of
malice likely to escape a lover. The publicity of his love was like
a sudden dagger-thrust in Sarrasine’s heart. Although possessed of a
certain strength of character, and although nothing that might happen
could subdue the violence of his passion, it had not before occurred
to him that La Zambinella was almost a courtesan, and that he could not
hope to enjoy at one and the same time the pure delights which would
make a maiden’s love so sweet, and the passionate transports with which
one must purchase the perilous favors of an actress. He reflected and
resigned himself to his fate. The supper was served. Sarrasine and La
Zambinella seated themselves side by side without ceremony. During the
first half of the feast the artists exercised some restraint, and the
sculptor was able to converse with the singer. He found that she was
very bright and quick-witted; but she was amazingly ignorant and seemed
weak and superstitious. The delicacy of her organs was reproduced in
her understanding. When Vitagliani opened the first bottle of champagne,
Sarrasine read in his neighbor’s eyes a shrinking dread of the report
caused by the release of the gas. The involuntary shudder of that
thoroughly feminine temperament was interpreted by the amorous artist
as indicating extreme delicacy of feeling. This weakness delighted the
Frenchman. There is so much of the element of protection in a man’s
love!
“‘You may make use of my power as a shield!’
“Is not that sentence written at the root of all declarations of love?
Sarrasine, who was too passionately in love to make fine speeches to the
fair Italian, was, like all lovers, grave, jovial, meditative, by turns.
Although he seemed to listen to the guests, he did not hear a word that
they said, he was so wrapped up in the pleasure of sitting by her side,
of touching her hand, of waiting on her. He was swimming in a sea of
concealed joy. Despite the eloquence of divers glances they exchanged,
he was amazed at La Zambinella’s continued reserve toward him. She had
begun, it is true, by touching his foot with hers and stimulating his
passion with the mischievous pleasure of a woman who is free and in
love; but she had suddenly enveloped herself in maidenly modesty, after
she had heard Sarrasine relate an incident which illustrated the extreme
violence of his temper. When the supper became a debauch, the guests
began to sing, inspired by the Peralta and the Pedro-Ximenes. There
were fascinating duets, Calabrian ballads, Spanish _sequidillas_, and
Neapolitan _canzonettes_. Drunkenness was in all eyes, in the music,
in the hearts and voices of the guests. There was a sudden overflow of
bewitching vivacity, of cordial unconstraint, of Italian good nature,
of which no words can convey an idea to those who know only the evening
parties of Paris, the routs of London, or the clubs of Vienna. Jests
and words of love flew from side to side like bullets in a battle, amid
laughter, impieties, invocations to the Blessed Virgin or the _Bambino_.
One man lay on a sofa and fell asleep. A young woman listened to
a declaration, unconscious that she was spilling Xeres wine on
the tablecloth. Amid all this confusion La Zambinella, as if
terror-stricken, seemed lost in thought. She refused to drink, but ate
perhaps a little too much; but gluttony is attractive in women, it is
said. Sarrasine, admiring his mistress’ modesty, indulged in serious
reflections concerning the future.
“‘She desires to be married, I presume,’ he said to himself.
“Thereupon he abandoned himself to blissful anticipations of marriage
with her. It seemed to him that his whole life would be too short to
exhaust the living spring of happiness which he found in the depths of
his heart. Vitagliani, who sat on his other side, filled his glass so
often that, about three in the morning, Sarrasine, while not absolutely
drunk, was powerless to resist his delirious passion. In a moment of
frenzy he seized the woman and carried her to a sort of boudoir which
opened from the salon, and toward which he had more than once turned his
eyes. The Italian was armed with a dagger.
“‘If you come hear me,’ she said, ‘I shall be compelled to plunge this
blade into your heart. Go! you would despise me. I have conceived too
great a respect for your character to abandon myself to you thus. I do
not choose to destroy the sentiment with which you honor me.’
“‘Ah!’ said Sarrasine, ‘to stimulate a passion is a poor way to
extinguish it! Are you already so corrupt that, being old in heart,
you act like a young prostitute who inflames the emotions in which she
trades?’
“‘Why, this is Friday,’ she replied, alarmed by the Frenchman’s
violence.
“Sarrasine, who was not piously inclined, began to laugh. La Zambinella
gave a bound like a young deer, and darted into the salon. When
Sarrasine appeared, running after her, he was welcomed by a roar of
infernal laughter. He saw La Zambinella swooning on a sofa. She was very
pale, as if exhausted by the extraordinary effort she had made. Although
Sarrasine knew but little Italian, he understood his mistress when she
said to Vitagliani in a low voice:
“‘But he will kill me!’
“This strange scene abashed the sculptor. His reason returned. He stood
still for a moment; then he recovered his speech, sat down beside his
mistress, and assured her of his profound respect. He found strength
to hold his passion in check while talking to her in the most exalted
strain; and, to describe his love, he displayed all the treasures of
eloquence--that sorcerer, that friendly interpreter, whom women rarely
refuse to believe. When the first rays of dawn surprised the boon
companions, some woman suggested that they go to Frascati. One and
all welcomed with loud applause the idea of passing the day at Villa
Ludovisi. Vitagliani went down to hire carriages. Sarrasine had the good
fortune to drive La Zambinella in a phaeton. When they had left Rome
behind, the merriment of the party, repressed for a moment by the battle
they had all been fighting against drowsiness, suddenly awoke. All, men
and women alike, seemed accustomed to that strange life, that constant
round of pleasures, that artistic energy, which makes of life one never
ending _fete_, where laughter reigns, unchecked by fear of the future.
The sculptor’s companion was the only one who seemed out of spirits.
“‘Are you ill?’ Sarrasine asked her. ‘Would you prefer to go home?’
“‘I am not strong enough to stand all this dissipation,’ she replied. ‘I
have to be very careful; but I feel so happy with you! Except for you,
I should not have remained to this supper; a night like this takes away
all my freshness.’
“‘You are so delicate!’ rejoined Sarrasine, gazing in rapture at the
charming creature’s dainty features.
“‘Dissipation ruins my voice.’
“‘Now that we are alone,’ cried the artist, ‘and that you no longer have
reason to fear the effervescence of my passion, tell me that you love
me.’
“‘Why?’ said she; ‘for what good purpose? You think me pretty. But you
are a Frenchman, and your fancy will pass away. Ah! you would not love
me as I should like to be loved.’
“‘How?’
“‘Purely, with no mingling of vulgar passion. I abhor men even more,
perhaps than I hate women. I need to take refuge in friendship. The
world is a desert to me. I am an accursed creature, doomed to understand
happiness, to feel it, to desire it, and like many, many others,
compelled to see it always fly from me. Remember, signor, that I have
not deceived you. I forbid you to love me. I can be a devoted friend
to you, for I admire your strength of will and your character. I need a
brother, a protector. Be both of these to me, but nothing more.’
“‘And not love you!’ cried Sarrasine; ‘but you are my life, my
happiness, dear angel!’
“‘If I should say a word, you would spurn me with horror.’
“‘Coquette! nothing can frighten me. Tell me that you will cost me my
whole future, that I shall die two months hence, that I shall be damned
for having kissed you but once----’
“And he kissed her, despite La Zambinella’s efforts to avoid that
passionate caress.
“‘Tell me that you are a demon, that I must give you my fortune, my
name, all my renown! Would you have me cease to be a sculptor? Speak.’
“‘Suppose I were not a woman?’ queried La Zambinella, timidly, in a
sweet, silvery voice.
“‘A merry jest!’ cried Sarrasine. ‘Think you that you can deceive
an artist’s eye? Have I not, for ten days past, admired, examined,
devoured, thy perfections? None but a woman can have this soft
and beautifully rounded arm, these graceful outlines. Ah! you seek
compliments!’
“She smiled sadly, and murmured:
“‘Fatal beauty!’
“She raised her eyes to the sky. At that moment, there was in her eyes
an indefinable expression of horror, so startling, so intense, that
Sarrasine shuddered.
“‘Signor Frenchman,’ she continued, ‘forget forever a moment’s madness.
I esteem you, but as for love, do not ask me for that; that sentiment is
suffocated in my heart. I have no heart!’ she cried, weeping bitterly.
‘The stage on which you saw me, the applause, the music, the renown to
which I am condemned--those are my life; I have no other. A few hours
hence you will no longer look upon me with the same eyes, the woman you
love will be dead.’
“The sculptor did not reply. He was seized with a dull rage which
contracted his heart. He could do nothing but gaze at that extraordinary
woman, with inflamed, burning eyes. That feeble voice, La Zambinella’s
attitude, manners, and gestures, instinct with dejection, melancholy,
and discouragement, reawakened in his soul all the treasures of passion.
Each word was a spur. At that moment, they arrived at Frascati. When the
artist held out his arms to help his mistress to alight, he felt that
she trembled from head to foot.
“‘What is the matter? You would kill me,’ he cried, seeing that she
turned pale, ‘if you should suffer the slightest pain of which I am,
even innocently, the cause.’
“‘A snake!’ she said, pointing to a reptile which was gliding along the
edge of a ditch. ‘I am afraid of the disgusting creatures.’
“Sarrasine crushed the snake’s head with a blow of his foot.
“‘How could you dare to do it?’ said La Zambinella, gazing at the dead
reptile with visible terror.
“‘Aha!’ said the artist, with a smile, ‘would you venture to say now
that you are not a woman?’
“They joined their companions and walked through the woods of Villa
Ludovisi, which at that time belonged to Cardinal Cicognara. The morning
passed all too swiftly for the amorous sculptor, but it was crowded
with incidents which laid bare to him the coquetry, the weakness, the
daintiness, of that pliant, inert soul. She was a true woman with her
sudden terrors, her unreasoning caprices, her instinctive worries,
her causeless audacity, her bravado, and her fascinating delicacy of
feeling. At one time, as the merry little party of singers ventured out
into the open country, they saw at some distance a number of men armed
to the teeth, whose costume was by no means reassuring. At the words,
‘Those are brigands!’ they all quickened their pace in order to reach
the shelter of the wall enclosing the cardinal’s villa. At that critical
moment Sarrasine saw from La Zambinella’s manner that she no longer
had strength to walk; he took her in his arms and carried her for some
distance, running. When he was within call of a vineyard near by, he set
his mistress down.
“‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘why it is that this extreme weakness which in
another woman would be hideous, would disgust me, so that the slightest
indication of it would be enough to destroy my love,--why is it that
in you it pleases me, fascinates me? Oh, how I love you!’ he continued.
‘All your faults, your frights, your petty foibles, add an indescribable
charm to your character. I feel that I should detest a Sappho, a strong,
courageous woman, overflowing with energy and passion. O sweet and
fragile creature! how couldst thou be otherwise? That angel’s voice,
that refined voice, would have been an anachronism coming from any other
breast than thine.’
“‘I can give you no hope,’ she said. ‘Cease to speak thus to me, for
people would make sport of you. It is impossible for me to shut the door
of the theatre to you; but if you love me, or if you are wise, you will
come there no more. Listen to me, monsieur,’ she continued in a grave
voice.
“‘Oh, hush!’ said the excited artist. ‘Obstacles inflame the love in my
heart.’
“La Zambinella maintained a graceful and modest attitude; but she
held her peace, as if a terrible thought had suddenly revealed some
catastrophe. When it was time to return to Rome she entered a berlin
with four seats, bidding the sculptor, with a cruelly imperious air, to
return alone in the phaeton. On the road, Sarrasine determined to carry
off La Zambinella. He passed the whole day forming plans, each more
extravagant than the last. At nightfall, as he was going out to inquire
of somebody where his mistress lived, he met one of his fellow-artists
at the door.
“‘My dear fellow,’ he said, I am sent by our ambassador to invite you
to come to the embassy this evening. He gives a magnificent concert, and
when I tell you that La Zambinella will be there--’
“‘Zambinella!’ cried Sarrasine, thrown into delirium by that name; ‘I am
mad with love of her.’
“‘You are like everybody else,’ replied his comrade.
“‘But if you are friends of mine, you and Vien and Lauterbourg and
Allegrain, you will lend me your assistance for a _coup de main_, after
the entertainment, will you not?’ asked Sarrasine.
“‘There’s no cardinal to be killed? no--?’
“‘No, no!’ said Sarrasine, ‘I ask nothing of you that men of honor may
not do.’
“In a few moments the sculptor laid all his plans to assure the success
of his enterprise. He was one of the last to arrive at the ambassador’s,
but he went thither in a traveling carriage drawn by four stout
horses and driven by one of the most skilful _vetturini_ in Rome. The
ambassador’s palace was full of people; not without difficulty did
the sculptor, whom nobody knew, make his way to the salon where La
Zambinella was singing at that moment.
“‘It must be in deference to all the cardinals, bishops, and _abbes_ who
are here,’ said Sarrasine, ‘that _she_ is dressed as a man, that _she_
has curly hair which _she_ wears in a bag, and that _she_ has a sword at
her side?’
“‘She! what she?’ rejoined the old nobleman whom Sarrasine addressed.
“‘La Zambinella.’
“‘La Zambinella!’ echoed the Roman prince. ‘Are you jesting? Whence have
you come? Did a woman ever appear in a Roman theatre? And do you not
know what sort of creatures play female parts within the domains of the
Pope? It was I, monsieur, who endowed Zambinella with his voice. I paid
all the knave’s expenses, even his teacher in singing. And he has so
little gratitude for the service I have done him that he has never been
willing to step inside my house. And yet, if he makes his fortune, he
will owe it all to me.’
“Prince Chigi might have talked on forever, Sarrasine did not listen to
him. A ghastly truth had found its way into his mind. He was stricken
as if by a thunderbolt. He stood like a statue, his eyes fastened on
the singer. His flaming glance exerted a sort of magnetic influence on
Zambinella, for he turned his eyes at last in Sarrasine’s direction, and
his divine voice faltered. He trembled! An involuntary murmur escaped
the audience, which he held fast as if fastened to his lips; and that
completely disconcerted him; he stopped in the middle of the aria he
was singing and sat down. Cardinal Cicognara, who had watched from
the corner of his eye the direction of his _protege’s_ glance, saw the
Frenchman; he leaned toward one of his ecclesiastical aides-de-camp, and
apparently asked the sculptor’s name. When he had obtained the reply he
desired he scrutinized the artist with great attention and gave orders
to an _abbe_, who instantly disappeared. Meanwhile Zambinella, having
recovered his self-possession, resumed the aria he had so capriciously
broken off; but he sang badly, and refused, despite all the persistent
appeals showered upon him, to sing anything else. It was the first
time he had exhibited that humorsome tyranny, which, at a later date,
contributed no less to his celebrity than his talent and his vast
fortune, which was said to be due to his beauty as much as to his voice.
“‘It’s a woman,’ said Sarrasine, thinking that no one could overhear
him. ‘There’s some secret intrigue beneath all this. Cardinal Cicognara
is hoodwinking the Pope and the whole city of Rome!’
“The sculptor at once left the salon, assembled his friends, and lay
in wait in the courtyard of the palace. When Zambinella was assured
of Sarrasine’s departure he seemed to recover his tranquillity in some
measure. About midnight after wandering through the salons like a man
looking for an enemy, the _musico_ left the party. As he passed through
the palace gate he was seized by men who deftly gagged him with a
handkerchief and placed him in the carriage hired by Sarrasine. Frozen
with terror, Zambinella lay back in a corner, not daring to move
a muscle. He saw before him the terrible face of the artist, who
maintained a deathlike silence. The journey was a short one. Zambinella,
kidnaped by Sarrasine, soon found himself in a dark, bare studio. He
sat, half dead, upon a chair, hardly daring to glance at a statue of a
woman, in which he recognized his own features. He did not utter a word,
but his teeth were chattering; he was paralyzed with fear. Sarrasine
was striding up and down the studio. Suddenly he halted in front of
Zambinella.
“‘Tell me the truth,’ he said, in a changed and hollow voice. ‘Are you
not a woman? Cardinal Cicognara----’
“Zambinella fell on his knees, and replied only by hanging his head.
“‘Ah! you are a woman!’ cried the artist in a frenzy; ‘for even a--’
“He did not finish the sentence.
“‘No,’ he continued, ‘even _he_ could not be so utterly base.’
“‘Oh, do not kill me!’ cried Zambinella, bursting into tears. ‘I
consented to deceive you only to gratify my comrades, who wanted an
opportunity to laugh.’
“‘Laugh!’ echoed the sculptor, in a voice in which there was a ring of
infernal ferocity. ‘Laugh! laugh! You dared to make sport of a man’s
passion--you?’
“‘Oh, mercy!’ cried Zambinella.
“‘I ought to kill you!’ shouted Sarrasine, drawing his sword in an
outburst of rage. ‘But,’ he continued, with cold disdain, ‘if I searched
your whole being with this blade, should I find there any sentiment to
blot out, anything with which to satisfy my thirst for vengeance? You
are nothing! If you were a man or a woman, I would kill you, but--’
“Sarrasine made a gesture of disgust, and turned his face away;
thereupon he noticed the statue.
“‘And that is a delusion!’ he cried.
“Then, turning to Zambinella once more, he continued: