 Chapter 6, Part 2, of the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova, Volume 2. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova, Volume 2, Paris in Prison, by Jacques Casanova, translated by Arthur Matchen. Episode 6, Chapter 6, Part 2. During a whole year, I paid, M. Crevidlon, three visits every week, and from him I learned all I know of the French language, but I found it impossible to get rid of my Italian idioms. I remarked that turn easily enough when I meet with it in other people, but it flows naturally from my pen without my being aware of it. I am satisfied that, whatever I may do, I shall never be able to recognize it any more than I could find out what consists the bad Latin style so constantly alleged against Livy. I composed a stanza of eight verses on some subject which I do not recollect, and gave it to Crevidlon, and asked him to correct it. He read it attentively and said to me, These eight verses are good and regular, the thought is fine and truly poetical, the style is perfect, and yet the stanza is bad. How so? I do not know, I cannot tell you what is wanting. Man that you see a man handsome, well made, amiable, witty, in fact perfect according to your most severe judgment. A woman comes in, sees him, looks at him, and goes away telling you that the man does not please her. But what fault do you find in him, madam? None, only he does not please me. You look again at the man, you examine him a second time, and you find that, in order to give him an heavenly voice, he has been deprived of that other which constitutes a man, and you are compelled to acknowledge that a spontaneous feeling has stood the woman in good stead. It was by that comparison that Crevidlon explained to me a thing almost inexplicable, for taste and feeling alone can account for a thing which is subject to no rule whatever. We spoke a great deal of Louis XIV, whom Crevidlon had known well for fifteen years, and he related several very curious anecdotes which are generally unknown. Most other things he assured me that the Siamese ambassadors were cheats, paid by the Madame de Montignan. He told us likewise that he never finished his tragedy of Cromwell, because the king had told him one day not to wear out his pen on a scoundrel. Crevidlon mentioned likewise his tragedy of Catalina, and he told me that, in his opinion, it was the most efficient of his works, but that he would never have consented, even to make a good tragedy, to represent Caesar as a young man, because he would in that case have made the public laugh, as they would do if Madea were to appear previous to acquaintances with Jason. He praised the talent of Voltaire very highly, but he accused him of having stolen from him, Crevidlon, the scene of the Senate. He however rendered him full justice, saying that he was a true historian, and able to write history as well as tragedies, but that he unfortunately adulterated history by mixing it with such a number of light anecdotes and tales for the sake of rendering it more attractive. According to Crevidlon, the man with the iron mask was nothing but an idle tale, and he had been assured of it by Louis XIV himself. On the day of my first meeting with Crevidlon at Sylvia's, Kenier, a play by Madame de Grafigny, was performed at the Italian theatre, and I went away early in order to get a good seat in the pit. The ladies, all covered with diamonds, who were taking possession of the private boxes, engrossed all my interest and all my attention. I wore a very fine suit, but my open ruffles and buttons all along my coat showed at once that I was a foreigner, for the fashion was not the same in Paris. I was gaping in the air, enlistlessly looking around, when a gentleman, splendidly dressed, and three times stouter than I, came up and inquired whether I was a foreigner. I answered affirmatively, and he politely asked me how I liked Paris. I praised Paris very warmly, but at that moment a very stout lady, brilliant with diamonds, entered the box near us. Her enormous size astonished me, and like a fool I said to the gentleman, Who is that fat sow? She is the wife of this fat pig. Ha! I beg your pardon a thousand times! But the stout gentleman cared nothing for my apologies, and very far from being angry he almost choked with laughter. This was the happy result of the practical and natural philosophy which Frenchmen cultivates so well, and which inspires the happiness of their existence under an appearance of frivolity. I was confused, I was in despair, but the stout gentleman continued to laugh heartily. At last he left the pit, and a minute afterwards I saw him enter the box and speak to his wife. I was keeping an eye on them without daring to look at them openly, and suddenly the lady, following the example of her husband, burst into a loud laugh. Their mirth making me more uncomfortable. I was leaving the pit, when the husband called up to me, Sir, Sir! I could not go away without being guilty of impoliteness, and I won up to their box. Then with a serious countenance, and with great affability, he begged my pardon for having laughed so much, and very graciously invited me to come to his house and sup with them that same evening. I thanked them politely, saying that I had a previous engagement. But he renewed his entreaties, and his wife, pressing me in the most engaging manner, I told them, in order to prove that I was not trying to elude their invitation, that I was expected to sup at Sylvia's house. In that case I am certain, said the gentleman, of obtaining your release if you do not object. Allow me to go myself to Sylvia. It would have been uncurrious on my part to resist any longer. He left the box and returned almost immediately with my friend Belletti, who told me that his mother was delighted to see me making such excellent acquaintances, and that she would expect to see me at dinner the next day. He whispered to me that my new acquaintance was Michel de Beauchamp, receivier-general of taxes. As soon as the performance was over, I offered my hand to Madame, and we drove to their mansion in a magnificent carriage. There I found the abundance, or rather the profusion, which in Paris is exhibited by the men of finance, numerous anxiety, high play, good cheer, and open cheerfulness. The supper was not over till one in the morning. Madame's private carriage drove me to my lodgings. That house offered me a kind welcome during my whole stay in Paris, and I must add that my new friends proved very useful to me. Some persons assert that foreigners find the first night in Paris very dull, because a little time is necessary to get introduced. But I was fortunate enough to find myself established on as good a footing as I could desire within twenty-four hours. And the consequence was that I felt delighted with Paris, and certain that my stay would prove an agreeable one. The next morning Patu called, and made me a present of his prose panagyric of the Michel de Saxe. We went out together, and took a walk in the Tullieres, where he introduced me to Madame de Bocage, who made a good jest in speaking of the Michel de Saxe. It is singular, she said, that we cannot have a de profundus for a man who makes us sing the Tedeum so often. As we left the Tullieres, Patu took me to the house of a celebrated actress of the opera, Madame Iselle Leiffel, the favorite of all Paris, and a member of the Royal Academy of Music. She had three very young and charming children, who were fluttering around her like butterflies. I adore them, she said to me. They deserve adoration for their beauty, I answered, although they all have a different cast of countenance. No wonder, the eldest is the son of the Duke de Anéquille, the second of Count de Egmont, the youngest is the offspring of Messon Rouge, who has just married the Romanville. Ah, pray excuse me, I thought you were the mother of the three. You are not mistaken, I am their mother. As she said those words, she looked at Patu and both burst into hearty laughter, which did not make me blush, but which showed me my blunder. I was a novice in Paris, and I had not become accustomed to see women encroach upon the privilege which men alone generally enjoy. Yet Madame Iselle Leiffel was not a bold-faced woman. She was even rather ladylike. But she was what is called above prejudices. If I had known the manners of the time better, I should have been aware that such things were in everyday occurrences, and that the noblemen who thus sprinkled their progeny everywhere were in the habit of leaving their children in the hands of their mothers, who were well-paid. The more fruitful, therefore, these ladies were, the greater was their income. My want of experience often led me into serious blunders, and Madame Iselle Leiffel would, I have no doubt, have laughed at anyone telling her that I had some wit, after the stupid mistakes of which I had been guilty. Another day, being at the house of Lani, ballet master of the opera, I saw five or six young girls of thirteen or fourteen years of age, accompanied by their mothers, all exhibiting that air of modesty which is the characteristic of a good education. I addressed a few gallant words to them, and they answered me with downcast eyes. One of them, having complained of the headache, I offered her my smelling-bottle, and one of her companions said to her, very likely you did not sleep well last night. Oh, it is not that," answered the modest-looking Agnes. I think I am in the family way. On receiving this unexpected reply from a girl I had taken for a maiden, I said to her, I should never have supposed you were married, Madame. She looked at me with evident surprise for a moment. Then she turned towards her friend, and both began to laugh inmoderately. Ashamed, but for them, more than for myself, I left the house with a firm resolution, never again to take virtue for granted, and a class of women amongst whom it is so scarce. To look for, even to suppose modesty, amongst the nymphs of the Green Room, is indeed to be very foolish. They pride themselves upon having none, and laugh at those who are simple enough to suppose them better than they are. Thanks to my friend Patou, I made the acquaintance of all the women who enjoyed some reputation in Paris. He was fond of the fair sex, but unfortunately for him he had not a constitution like mine, and his love of pleasure killed him very early. If he had lived he would have gone down to posterity in the wake of Voltaire. But he paid the debt of nature at the age of thirty. I learned from him the secret which several young French literati employ in order to make certain of the perfection of their prose, when they want to write anything requiring as perfect a style as they can obtain, such as panigerics, funeral orations, eulogies, dedications, etc. It was by surprise that I arrested that secret from Patou. Being at his house one morning, I observed on his table several sheets of paper covered with Dota-Cassilebellic blank verse. I read a dozen of them, and I told him that, although the verses were very fine, the reading caused me more pain than pleasure. They expressed the same idea as the panigeric of the Martial des Socs, but I confess that your prose pleases me a great deal more. My prose would not have pleased you so much if it had not been at first composed in blank verse. Then you take very great trouble for nothing. No trouble at all, for I have not the slightest difficulty in writing that sort of poetry. I write it as easily as prose. Do you think that prose is better when you compose it from your own poetry? No doubt of it. It is much better. And I also secure the advantage that my prose is not full of half verses which flow from the pen of the writer without his being aware of it. Is that a fault? A great one, and not one to be forgiven. Prose intermixed with occasional verses is worse than prosaic poetry. It is true that the verses which, like parasites, steal into the funeral oration must be sadly out of place. Certainly take the example of Tacitus, who begins his history of Rome by these words, erbrum romum aprincipo reges abuere. They form a very poor Latin hexameter, which the great historian certainly never made on purpose, in which he never remarked when he revised his work. So there was no doubt that, if he had observed it, he would have altered that sentence. Are not such verses considered a blemish in Italian prose? Decidedly, but I must say that a great many poor writers have purposefully inserted such verses into their prose, believing that they would make it more euphonious, hence the tawdreness which is generally alleged against much Italian literature. But I suppose you are the only writer who takes such pains. The only one? Certainly not. All the authors who can compose blank verses very easily, as I can, employ them when they intend to make a fair copy of their prose. As Crebelon, the Abbe de Vosan, Le Arp. Anyone you like, they will all tell you the same thing. Voltaire was the first to have recourse to that art in the very small pieces in which his prose is truly charming. For instance, the epistle to Madame du Châtelet, which is magnificent, read it, and if you find a single hemmestitch in it, I will confess myself in the wrong. I felt some curiosity about the matter, and I asked Crebelon about it. He told me that Patu was right, but he added that he had never practiced that art himself. Patu wished very much to take me to the opera, to witness the effect produced upon me by the performance which must truly astonish an Italian. The Fitt Vittain was the title of the opera, which was in vogue just then, a title full of interest for me. We went for our fortissue to the pit, in which, although the audience was standing, the company was excellent, but the opera was the true amusement of all the Parisians. After a symphony, very fine in its way, and executed by an excellent orchestra, the curtain rises, and I see a beautiful scene representing the small Saint Mark's Square in Venice, taken from the Isle of St. George. But I am shocked to see the Ducal Palace on my left, and the tall steeple on my right. That is to say the very reverse of reality. I laugh at this ridiculous mistake, and Patu, to whom I say why I am laughing, cannot help joining me. The music, very fine, although in the ancient style, it first amused me on account of its novelty, but it soon wearied me. The malopeia fatigued me by its constant and tedious monotony, and by the shrieks given out by the season. That meliopeia of the French replaces, at least they think so, the Greek meliopoeia, and our recitive, which they dislike, but which they would admire if they understood Italian. The action of the opera was limited to a day in the Carnival, when the Venetians are in the habit of promenading massed in St. Mark's Square. The stage was animated by gallants, procuresces, and women amusing themselves with all sorts of intrigues. The costumes were whimsical and erroneous, but the whole was amusing. I laughed very heartily, and it was truly a curious sight for a Venetian, when I saw the doge, followed by twelve counsellors, appear on the stage, all dressed in the most ludicrous style, and dancing a paude d'assemble. Suddenly the whole of the pit burst into loud applause at the appearance of a tall, well-made dancer, wearing a mask and an enormous black wig, the hair of which went half-way down his back, and dressed in a robe, open in the front, and reaching to his heels. Patou said, almost reverently, it is the immeasurable dupré. I had heard of him before, and became attentive. I saw that fine figure coming forward with measured steps, and when the dancer had arrived in front of the stage, he raised slowly his rounded arms, stretching them gracefully backwards and forwards, moved his feet with precision and lightness, took a few small steps, made some batiments and peroettes, and disappeared like a butterfly. The whole had not lasted half a minute. The applause burst from every part of the house. I was astonished, and asked my friend the calls of all those bravos. We applaud the grace of dupré, and the divine harmony of his movements. Now sixty years of age, and those who saw him forty years ago, say that he is always the same. What? Has he never danced in a different style? He could not have danced in a better one, for his style is perfect, and what can you want above perfection? Nothing, unless it be a relative perfection. But here it is absolute, dupré always does the same thing, and every day we fancy we see it for the first time, such as the power of the good and beautiful, of the true and sublime, which speak to the soul. His dance is true harmony, the real dance, of which you have no idea in Italy. At the end of the second act dupré appeared again, still with a mask, and danced to a different tune, but in my opinion doing exactly the same as before. He advanced to the very footlights, and stopped one instant in a graceful attitude. Patu wanted to force my admiration, and I gave way. Suddenly, everyone around me exclaimed, Look, look, he is developing himself. And in reality he was like an elastic body, which in developing itself would get larger. I made Patu very happy by telling him that dupré was truly very graceful in all his movements. Immediately after him we had a female dancer, who jumped about like a fury, cutting to the right and left, but heavily. Yet she was applauded, con fuore. That is, said Patu, the famous Carmago. I congratulate you, my friend, on having arrived in Paris in time to see her, for she has accomplished her twelfth luster. I confess that she was a wonderful dancer. She is the first artist, continued my friend, who has dared to spring and jump on a French stage. None ventured upon doing it before her, in what is more extraordinary, she does not wear any drawers. I beg your pardon, but I saw. What? Nothing but her skin, which, to speak the truth, is not made of lilies and roses. The Carmago, I said, in an air of repentance, does not please me. I like dupré much better. An elderly admirer of Carmago, seated on my left, told me that in her youth she could perform this saut de basque, and even the gogolade, and that nobody had ever seen her thighs, although she always danced without drawers. But if you never saw her thighs, how do you know she does not wear silk tights? Oh, that is one of those things that can be easily ascertained. I see you are a foreigner, sir. You are right. But I was delighted at the French opera, with the rapidity of the scenic changes which are done like lightning, at the signal of a whistle, a thing entirely unknown in Italy. I likewise admired the start given to the orchestra by the battalion of the leader, but he disgusted me with the movements of a scepter, right and left, as if he thought he could give life to all the instruments by the mere motion of his arm. I admired also the silence of the audience, a thing truly wonderful to an Italian, for it is with great reason that people complain of the noise made in Italy while the artists are singing, and ridicule the silence which prevails through the house as soon as the dancers make their appearance on the stage. One would imagine that all the intelligence of the Italians is in their eyes. At the same time I must observe that there is not one country in the world in which extravagance and whimsicalness cannot be found, because the foreigner can make comparisons with what he has seen elsewhere, whilst the natives are not conscious of their errors. Altogether the opera pleased me, but the French comedy captivated me. There the French are truly in their element. They perform splendidly, in a masterly manner, and other nations cannot refuse them the palm which good taste and justice must award to their superiority. I was in the habit of going there every day, and although sometimes the audience was not composed of two hundred persons, the actors were perfect. I have seen Les Mésenthropes, Les Arves, La Touffe, Les Jolaires, Les Glorions, and many other comedies, no matter how often I have saw them. I always fancied it was for the first time. I arrived in Paris to admire Serrazine, La D'Anguile, La Domensine, La Galsignan, La Clérionne, Préviée, and several actresses who, having retired from the stage, were living upon their pensions and delighting their circle of friends. I made, amongst others, the acquaintance of the celebrated La Vessure. I visited them all with pleasure, and they all related to me several very curious anecdotes. They were generally most kindly disposed in every way. One evening, being in the box of Les Vessures, the performance was composed of a tragedy in which a very handsome actress had the part of a dumb priestess. How pretty she is, I said. Yes, charming, answered La Vessure. She is the daughter of the actor who plays the confidante. She is very pleasant in company and is an actress of good promise. I should be very happy to make her acquaintance. Oh, well, that is not difficult. Her father and mother are very worthy people, and they will be delighted if you ask them to invite you to supper. They will not disturb you. They will go to bed early, and will let you talk with their daughters as long as you please. You are in France, sir. Here we know the value of life and try to make the best of it. We love pleasure and esteem ourselves fortunate when we can find the opportunity of enjoying life. That is very truly charming, madam. But how can I be so bold as to invite myself to supper with worthy persons whom I do not know and who have not the slightest knowledge of me? Oh, dear me, what are you saying? We know everybody. You see how I treat you myself. After the performance I shall be happy to introduce you, and the acquaintance will be made at once. I certainly must ask you to do me that honor, but another time. Whenever you like. End of Chapter 6, Part 2. Chapter 7, Part 1 of the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova, Volume 2, Paris in Prison, by Jacques Casanova, translated by Arthur Machin. Episode 6, Chapter 7, Part 1. My Blunders in the French Language, My Success, My Numerous Acquaintances, Louis the 15th, My Brother Arrives in Paris. All the Italian actors in Paris insisted upon entertaining me in order to show me their magnificence, and they all did it in a sumptuous style. Carline Bertonazzi, who played Harlequin and was a great favorite of the Parisians, reminded me that he had already seen me 13 years before in Padua, at the time of his return from St. Petersburg with my mother. He offered me an excellent dinner at the house of Madame de Colliere, where he lodged. That lady was in love with him. I complimented her upon four charming children whom I saw in the house. Her husband, who is present, said to me, They are Monsieur Carline's children. That may be, sir, but you take care of them, and, as they go by your name, of course they will acknowledge you as their father. Yes, I should be so legally, but Monsieur Carline is too honest a man not to assume the care of his children whenever I may wish to get rid of them. He is well aware that they belong to him, and my wife would be the first to complain if he ever denied it. The man was not what is called a good, easy fellow, far from it, but he took the matter in a philosophical way, and spoke of it with calm, and even with a sort of dignity. He was attached to Carline by a warm friendship, and such things were then very common in Paris, amongst people of a certain class. Two noblemen, Bouffleurs and Luxembourg, who had made a very friendly exchange of each other's wives, and each had children by the other's wife. The young Bouffleurs were called Luxembourg, and the young Luxembourg were called Bouffleurs. The descendants of these tear slits are even now known in France under those names. Well, those who were in the secret of that domestic comedy laughed, as a matter of course, and it did not prevent the earth from moving according to the laws of gravitation. The most wealthy of the Italian comedians in Paris was Panteloun, the father of Corline and Camille, and a well-known usurer. He also invited me to dine with his family, and I was delighted with his two daughters. The eldest, Corline, was kept by the Prince of Monaco, son of the Duke of Alaintois, who was still alive, and Camille was an amourne of the Count of Melfort, the favorite of the Duchess of Charte, who had just become Duchess of Orléans by the death of her father-in-law. Corline was not so sprightly as Camille, but she was prettier. I began to make love to her as a young man of no consequence, and at hours which I thought would not attract attention. But all hours belonged, by right, to the established lover, and I therefore found myself sometimes with her when the Prince of Monaco called to see her. At first I would bow to the Prince in withdrawal, but afterwards I was asked to remain, for, as a general thing, princes find a tetetet with their mistresses rather wearysome. Therefore we used to sup together, and they both listened, while it was my province to eat, and to relate stories. I rethought myself of paying my court to the Prince, and he received my advances very well. One morning, as I called her on Corline, he said to me, Ah, I am very glad to see you, for I have promised the Duchess of Rufa to present you to her, and we can go to her immediately. Again, a Duchess! My star was decidedly in the Ascendant. Well, let us go. We got into a diable, a sort of vehicle then very fashionable, and at eleven o'clock in the morning we were introduced to the Duchess. Dear reader, if I were to paint it with a faithful pen, my portrait of that lustful vixen would frighten you. Imagine sixty winters heaped upon a face plastered with rouge, a blotched and pimpled complexion, emaciated and gaunt features, all the ugliness of libertinism stamped upon the countenance of that creature reclining upon the sofa. As soon as she sees me, she exclaims with rapid joy, Ah, this is a good-looking man! Prince, it is very amiable on your part to bring him to me. Come and sit near me, my fine fellow. I obeyed respectfully. But a noxious smell of musk, which seemed to me almost corpse-like, nearly upset me. The infamous Duchess had raised herself on the sofa, and exposed all the nakedness of the most disgusting bosom, which would have caused the most courageous man to draw back. The Prince, pretending to have some engagement, left us, saying that he would send his carriage for me in a short time. As soon as we were alone, the plastered skeleton thrust its arm forward, and without giving me time to know what I was about, the creature gave me a horrible kiss, and then one of her hands began to stray with the most bare-faced indecency. Let me see, my fine cock, she said. If you have a fine—' I was shuddering, and resisted the attempt. Well, well, what a baby you are, said the disgusted mesaline. Are you such a novice? No, madam, but—but what? I have—' Oh, the villain, she exclaimed, loosening her hold. What was I going to expose myself to? I veiled myself of the opportunity, snatched my hat, and took to my heels, afraid lest the doorkeeper should stop me. I took a coach, and drove to Corleens, where I related the adventure. She laughed heartily, and agreed with me that the Prince had played me a nasty trick. She praised the presence of mine, with which I had invented an impediment, but she did not give me an opportunity to proving to her that I had deceived the duchess. Yet I was not without hope, and suspected that she did not think me sufficiently of enamored of her. Three or four days afterwards, however, as we had suffered together and alone, I told her so many things, and I asked her so clearly to make me happy, or else dismiss me, that she gave me an appointment for the following day. "'Tomorrow,' she said, the Prince goes to Versailles, and he will not return until the day after. We will go together to the Warren to hunt ferrets, and have no doubt we shall come back to Paris pleased with one another.' That is right. The next day at ten o'clock we took a coach, but as we were nearing the gate of the city of Versailles, with servants in a foreign livery come tip to us, and the person who was in it called out, "'Stop! Stop!' The person was the cheviet de Vurtembourg, who, without daining to cast even one glance on me, began to say sweet words to Coraline, and thrusting his head entirely out of his carriage he whispered to her. She answered him likewise in a whisper. Then, taking my hand, she said to me, laughingly, "'I have some important business with this Prince. Go to the Warren alone, my dear friend. Enjoy the hunt, and come to me to-morrow.' Saying these words she got out, took her seat in the vis-à-vis, and I found myself very much in the position of Lot's wife, but not motionless. "'Dear reader, if you have ever been in such a predicament, you will easily realize the rage with which I was possessed. If you have never been served in that way, so much the better for you, but it is useless for me to try to give you an idea of my anger, you would not understand me.' I was disgusted with the coach, and I jumped out of it, telling the driver to go to the devil. I took the first hack which happened to pass, and drove straight to Petu's house, to whom I related my adventure, almost foaming with rage. Very far from pitying me, or sharing my anger, Petu, much wiser, laughed, and said, I wish with all my heart that the same thing might happen to me, for you are certain of possessing our beautiful co-alien the very first time you are with her. I will not have her, for now I despise her heartily. Your contempt ought to have come sooner, but now that it is too late to discuss the matter, I offer you as a compensation a dinner at the Hotel de Rue. Most decidedly, yes, it is an excellent idea, let us go. The Hotel de Rue was famous in Paris, and I had not been there yet. The woman who kept it had furnished the place with great elegance, and she always had twelve or fourteen well-chosen nymphs, with all the conveniences that could be desired, good cooking, good beds, cleanliness, solitary, beautiful groves. Her cook was an artist, and her wine-seller excellent. Her name was Madame Paris, probably an assumed name, but it was good enough for the purpose. Protected by the police, she was far enough from Paris to be certain that those who visited her liberally appointed establishment were above the middle class. Everything was strictly regulated in her house, and every pleasure was taxed at a reasonable tariff. The prices were six francs for a breakfast with a nymph, twelve for dinner, and twice that sum to spend a whole night. I found the house even better than its reputation, and far superior to the Warren. We took a coach, and Patu said to the driver, to chez l'autre, I understand your honor. After a drive of half an hour we stopped before a gate, on which could be read, Hotel de Rue. The gate was closed, a porter, sporting long mustachios, came out through a side door and gravely examined us. He was most likely pleased with our appearance, for the gate was opened and we went in. A woman, blind of one eye, about forty years old, but with a remnant of beauty, came up, saluted us politely, and inquired whether we wished to have dinner. Our answer, being affirmative, she took us to a fine room, in which we found fourteen young women, all very handsome, dressed the like in muslin. As we entered the room they rose, and made us a graceful reverence. They were all about the same age, some with light hair, some with dark. Every taste could be satisfied. We passed them in review, addressing a few words to each, and made our choice. The two we chose screamed for joy, kissed us with the voluptuousness which a novice might have mistaken for love, and took us to the garden, until dinner would be ready. The garden was very large and artistically arranged to minister to the pleasures of love. Madame Peres said to us, Go gentlemen, enjoy the fresh air with perfect security in every way. My house is at the temple of peace and of good health. The girl I had chosen was something like Coalene, and that made me find her delightful, but in the midst of our amorous occupations we were called to dinner. We were well served and the dinner gave us new strength, when our single-eyed hostess came, watch in hand to announce the time was up. Pleasure at the Hotel de Rue was measured by the hour. I whispered to Patu, and after a few philosophical considerations, addressing himself to Madame, like Govanate, he said to her, We will have a double dose, and of course pay double. You are quite welcome, gentlemen. We went upstairs, and after we had made our choice a second time, we renewed our promenade in the garden, but once more we were disagreeably surprised by the strict punctuality of the Lady of the House. Indeed, this is too much of a good thing, Madame. Let us go up for the third time, make a third choice, and pass the whole night here. A delightful idea which I accept with all my heart. Does Madame Peres approve our plan? I could not have devised a better one, gentlemen. It is a masterpiece. When we were in the room, after we had made a new choice, the girls laughed at the first ones who had not contrived to captivate us, and by way of revenge these girls told their companions that we were lanky fellows. This time I was indeed astonished at my own choice. I had taken a true aspiasia, and I thanked my stars that I had passed her by the first two times, as I now had the certainty of possessing her for fourteen hours. That beauty's name was Saint Hilaire, and under that name she had become famous in England, where she followed a rich Lord the year after. At first vexed because I had not remarked her before, she was proud and disdainful, but I soon proved to her that it was fortunate that my first or second choice had not fallen on her, as she would now remain with me. She then began to laugh, and she showed herself very agreeable. That girl had wit, education, and talent. Everything in fact that is needful to succeed in the profession she had adopted. During supper Patu told me in Italian that he was on the point of taking her at the very moment I chose her. In the next morning he informed me that he had slept quietly all night. The Saint Hilaire was highly pleased with me, and she boasted of it before her companions. She was the cause of my paying several visits to the Hotel De Rue, and all for her. She was very proud of my constancy. Those visits very naturally cooled my ardor for Coraline. A singer from Venice, called Guandani, handsome, a thorough musician and very witty, contrived to captivate her affections three weeks after my quarrel with her. The handsome fellow, who was a man only in appearance, inflamed her with curiosity, if not with love, and caused a rupture with the Prince, who called her in the very act. But Coraline managed to coax him back, and a short time after, a reconciliation took place between them. And such a good one, that a babe was the consequence of it. A girl, whom the Prince named Adelaide, and to whom he gave a dowry. After the death of his father, the Duke of Valentois, the Prince left her altogether and married Mademoiselle de Bogniol from Genoa. Coraline became the mistress of Count de la Marche, now Prince de Conti. Coraline is now dead, as well as a son whom she had by the Count, and whom his father named Count de Montréal. Madame de Dauphine was delivered of a princess, who received the title of Madame de France. In the month of August the Royal Academy had an exhibition in the Louvre, and as there was not a single battle piece, I conceived the idea of summoning my brother to Paris. He was then in Venice, and he had great talent in that particular style. Pessarelli, the only painter of battles known in France, was dead, and I thought that François might succeed and make a fortune. I therefore wrote to Monsieur Grimani and to my brother. I persuaded them both, but François did not come to Paris till the beginning of the following year. Louis XV, who was passionately found of hunting, was in the habit of spending six weeks every year at the Chateau de Fontainebleau. He always returned to Versailles towards the middle of November. That trip cost him, or rather cost France, five millions of francs. He always took with him all that could contribute to the amusement of the foreign ambassadors and of his numerous court. He was followed by the French and Italian comedians, and by the actors and actresses of the opera. During those six weeks, Fontainebleau was more brilliant than Versailles. Nevertheless the artists attached to the theaters were so numerous that the opera, the French and Italian comedies, remained open in Paris. Belletti's father, who had recovered his health, was to go to Fontainebleau with Sylvia and all his family. They invited me to accompany them and to accept a lodging in a house hired by them. It was a splendid opportunity. They were my friends, and I accepted, for I could not have met with a better occasion to see the court and all the foreign ministers. I presented myself to Monsieur de Morassini, now procurator at St. Mark's, and then ambassador from the Republic to the French court. The first night of the opera, he gave me permission to accompany him. The music was by Lully. I had a seat in the pit precisely under the private box of Madame de Pompadour, whom I did not know. During the first scene, the celebrated Lamar gave a scream so shrill and so unexpected that I thought she had gone mad. I burst into a genuine laugh, not supposing that anyone could possibly find fault with it. But a night of the order of the Holy Ghost, who was near the Marquis de Pompadour, dryly asked me what country I came from. I answered in the same tone, from Venice. I have been there, and have laughed heartily at the recitative in your operas. I believe you, sir, and I feel certain that no one ever thought of objecting to your laughing. My answer, rather a sharp one, made Madame de Pompadour laugh, and she asked me whether I truly came from down there. What do you mean by down there? I mean Venice. That answer was found more singular than the first. Venice, madam, is not down there, but up there. That answer was found more singular than the first, and everyone in the box held a consultation in order to certain whether Venice was down or up. Most likely they thought I was right, for I was left alone. Nevertheless, I listened to the opera without laughing, but as I had a very bad cold, I blew my nose often. The same gentleman addressing himself again to me remarked that very likely the windows in my room did not close well. That gentleman, who was unknown to me, was the Marshal de Richelot. I told him that he was mistaken, for my windows were well called fit trees. Everyone in the box burst into a loud laugh, and I felt mortified, for I knew my mistake. I ought to have said cal-frit trees, but those ewe and ewe caused dire misery to all foreigners. Half an hour afterwards, Miss sure de Richelot asked me which of the two actresses pleased me the most by her beauty. That one, sir. But she has ugly legs. They are not seen, sir. Besides, whenever I examine the beauty of a woman, la première chose des jacquettes c'est son les jambres. That word, said quite by chance, in the double meeting of which I did not understand, made at once an important personage of me. And everybody in the box of Madame de Pompadour was curious to know me. The Marshal learned who I was from Miss sure de Morassini, who told me that the Duke would be happy to receive me. My jour des morts became celebrated, and the Marshal honored me with a very gracious welcome. Among the foreign ministers, the one to whom I attached myself most was Lord Keith, Marshal of Scotland, and Ambassador of the King of Prussia. I shall have occasion to speak of him. The day after my arrival in Fontainebleau, I went to the court, and I saw Louis XV, the handsome king, go to the chapel with the royal family, and all the ladies of the court, who surprised me by their ugliness, as much as the ladies of the court of Turin had astonished me by their beauty. Yet, in the midst of so many ugly ones, I found out a regular beauty. I inquired who she was. "'She is,' answered one of my neighbors, Madame de Breon, more remarkable by her virtue, even than by her beauty. Not only is there no scandalous story told about her, but she has never given any opportunity to scandal-mongers, of inventing any adventure of which she was the heroine. Perhaps her adventures are not known. Ha! Monsieur! At the court, everything is known!' I went about alone, sauntering through the apartments, when suddenly I met a dozen ugly ladies who seemed to be running rather than walking. They were standing so badly upon their legs that they appeared as if they would fall forward on their faces. Some gentlemen happened to be near me. They impelled me to inquire where they were coming from and where they were going in such haste. They were coming from the apartment of the queen who was going to dine, and the reason why they walked so badly is that their shoes have heels six inches high which compel them to walk on their toes and with bent knees in order to avoid falling on their faces. But why do they not wear lower heels? It is the fashion. What a stupid fashion! I took a gallery at random and saw the king passing along, standing with one arm on the shoulder of Monsieur de Argançon. Oh, base servility, I thought to myself. How can a man make up his mind thus to bear the yoke, and how can a man believe himself so much above all others as to take such unwarrantable liberties? Louis XV had the most magnificent head it was possible to see, and he carried it with as much grace as majesty. Never did even the most skillful painter succeed in rendering justice to the expression of that beautiful head, when the king turned it to one side to look with kindness at anyone. His beauty and grace compelled love at once. As I saw him I thought I had found the ideal majesty which I had been so surprised not to find in the king of Sardinia, and I could not entertain a doubt of madame de Pompadour having been in love with the king when she sued for his royal attention. I was greatly mistaken perhaps, but such a thought was natural in looking at the countenance of Louis XV. I reached a splendid room in which I saw several courtiers walking about in a table large enough for twelve persons, but laid out only for one. For whom is this table? For the queen, her majesty is coming in. It was the queen of France, without rouge, and very simply dressed. Her head was covered with a large cap. She looked old and devout. When she was near the table she graciously thanked two nuns who were placing a plate with fresh butter on it. She sat down and immediately the courtiers formed a semi-circle within five yards of the table. I remained near them, imitating their respectful silence. Her majesty began to eat without looking at anyone, keeping her eyes on the plate. One of the dishes being to her taste she desired to be helped to it a second time, and then she cast her eyes round the circle of courtiers, probably in order to see if among them was anyone to whom she owed an account of her daintyness. She found that person, I suppose, for she said, Monsieur de Loandale. At that, name, a fine-looking gentleman came forward with respectful inclination and said, Your Majesty, I believe this is free cause of chickens. I am of the same opinion, madam. To this question, given in the most serious tone, the queen continued eating, and the marshal retreated backwards to his original place. The queen finished her dinner without uttering a single word, and retired to her apartments the same way as she had come. I thought that if such was the way the queen of France took all her meals, I would not sue for the honor of being her guest. I was delighted to have seen the famous captain who had conquered Bergen-Ab-Zoom, but I regretted that such a man should be compelled to give an answer about a fricasse of chickens in a serious tone of a judge pronouncing a sentence of death. I made good use of this anecdote at the excellent dinner Sylvia gave to the elite of polite, in agreeable society. End of Chapter 7 Part 1 Episode 6, Chapter 7, Part 2 of the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova, Volume 2 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patrick Orlov A few days afterwards, as I was forming a line with a crowd of courtiers to enjoy the ever-new pleasure of seeing the king go to mass, a pleasure to which must be added the advantage of looking at the naked and entirely exposed arms and bosoms of Madame de France, his daughters. I suddenly perceived the Cavamaria whom I had left in Cicena under the name of Madame Carini. If I was astonished to see her, she was as much so in meeting me in such a place. The Marquis of Saint-Sémon, premier gentilome of the Prince-de-Conde, escorted her. Madame Carini, in Fontaine-Blu. You here? It reminds me of Queen Elizabeth saying, paupers rubiques fossés. An excellent comparison, Madame. I am only joking, my dear friend. I am here to see the king, who does not know me. But tomorrow the ambassador will present me to his majesty. She placed herself in the line with an eardrum from me, beside the door by which the king was to come. His majesty entered the gallery with Montchureau de Richelieu, and looked at the so-called Madame Carini. But she very likely did not take his fancy for, continuing to walk on, he addressed to the Marshal these remarkable words which Juliet must have overheard. We have handsome a woman here. In the afternoon I called upon the Venetian ambassador. I found him a numerous company, with Madame Carini sitting on his right. She addressed me in the most flattering and friendly manner. It was extraordinary conduct on the part of a giddy woman who had no cause to like me, for she was aware that I knew her thoroughly, and that I had mastered her vanity. But as I understood her maneuvering I made up my mind not to disablige her, and even to render her all the good offices I could. It was a noble revenge. As she was speaking of Montchureau Carini, the ambassador congratulated her upon her marriage with him, saying that he was glad Montchureau Carini had rendered justice to her merit, and adding, I was not aware of your marriage. Yet it took place more than two years since, said Juliet. I know it for a fact, I said, in my turn. For two years ago the lady was introduced as Madame Carini, and with the title of Excellency by General Sparta, to all the nobility in Susena, where I was at that time. I have no doubt of it, answered the ambassador, fixing his eyes upon me, for Carini has himself written to me on this subject. A few minutes afterwards, as I was preparing to take my leave, the ambassador, under pretense of some letters the contents of which he wished to communicate to me, invited me to come to his private room, and he asked me what the people generally thought of the marriage in Venice. Nobody knows it, and it is even rumoured that the heir of the House of Carini is on the point of marrying a daughter of the Grimani family, but I shall certainly send news to Venice. What news? That Juliet is truly Madame Carini, since your Excellency will present her as such to Louis XV. Who told you so? She did. Perhaps she has altered her mind. I repeated to the ambassador the words which the king had said to Montchureau de Richelieu after looking at Juliet. Then I can guess, remarked the ambassador, why Juliet does not wish to be presented to the king. I was informed some time afterwards that Montchureau de Saint Quentin, the king's confidential minister, had called after Mass on the handsome Venetian, and had told her that the king of France had most certainly very bad taste, because he had not thought her beauty superior to that of several ladies of his court. Juliet left Fontainebleau the next morning. In the first part of my memoirs, I had spoken of Juliet's beauty. She had a wonderful charm in her countenance, but she had already used her advantages too long, and her beauty was beginning to fade when she arrived in Fontainebleau. I met her again in Paris at the ambassadors, and she told me with the laugh that she had only been ingest when she called herself Madame Carini, and that I should oblige her if, for the future, I would call her by her real name of Countess Priati. She invited me to visit her at the Hotel de Luxembourg, where she was staying. I often called on her, for her intrigues amused me. But I was wise enough not to meddle with them. She remained in Paris four months, and contrived to infatuate Montreuranchi, secretary of the Venetian embassy, an amiable and learned man. He was so deeply in love that he had made up his mind to marry her, but through a caprice which she, perhaps, regretted afterwards, she ill-treated him, and the fool died of grief. Count de Combe, ambassador of Marie-Theresa, had at some inclination for her, as well as the Count of Zinsendorf. The person who arranged these transient and short-lived intrigues was a certain Guasco, an obé not over-favored with the gifts of Plutus. He was particularly ugly, and had to purchase small favors with great services. But the man whom she really wished to marry was Count Saint-Simon. He would have married her if she had not given him false addresses to make enquiries respecting her birth. The Priari family of Verona denied all knowledge of her as a matter of course, and Montreur de Saint-Simon, who, in spite of all his love, had not entirely lost his senses, had the courage to abandon her. Altogether Paris did not prove an eldorado for my handsome countrywoman, for she was obliged to pledge her diamonds and to leave them behind her. After her return to Venice she married the son of Vuccelli, whose sixteen years before had taken her out of her poverty. She died ten years ago. I was still taking my French lessons with my good old Trebillon, yet my style, which was full of Italianisms, often expressed the very reverse of what I meant to say. But generally my quid pro quo only resulted in curious jokes which made my fortune, and the best of it is that my gibberish did me no harm on the score of wit. On the contrary, it produced me fine acquaintances. Several ladies of the best society begged me to teach them Italian, saying that it would afford them the opportunity of teaching me French. In such an exchange I always want more than they did. Madame Priado, who was one of my pupils, received me one morning. She was still in bed and told me that she did not feel disposed to have a lesson, because she'd taken medicine the previous night. Foolishly translating an Italian idiom, I asked her, with an air of deep interest, whether she had well, disharge. Sir, what a question! You were unbearable. I repeated my question. She broke out angrily again. Never utter that dreadful word. You're wrong in getting angry. It is the proper word, a very dirty word, sir. But enough about it. Will you have some breakfast? No, I thank you. I have taken a café and two savoyards. Dear me, what a ferocious breakfast. Pray explain yourself. I say that I have drunk a café and eaten two savoyards soaked in it, and that is what I do every morning. You were stupid, my good friend. The café is an establishment in which coffee is sold, and you ought to say that you have drunk eustafte café. Good indeed! Do you drink the cup? In Italy, we say kaffs, and we are not foolish enough to suppose that it means the coffee house. He will have the best of it, and two savoyards. How did you swallow them? Soaked in my coffee, for they were not larger than these on your table. And you call these savoyards, say biscuits. In Italy, we call them savoyards, because they were first invented in savoy. And it's not my fault if you imagined that I'd swallowed two of the porters to be found at the corner of the streets, big fellows whom you call in Paris savoyards, although very often they've never been in savoy. Her husband came in at the moment, and she lost no time in relating the whole of our conversation. He laughed heartily, but he said I was right. Her niece arrived a few minutes after. She was a young girl about 14 years of age, reserved, modest, very intelligent. I had given her five or six lessons in Italian, and as she was very fond of that language and studied diligently, she was beginning to speak. Wishing to pay me her compliments in Italian, she said to me, Signore, sono incantata di vivader in bonus salute. I thank you, mademoiselle, but to translate I am enchanted, you must say popacer, and for to see you, you must say dividervi. Monsior Madame Priodeau were dying with laughter. The young lady was confused, and I in despair at having uttered such a gross absurdity, but it could not be helped. I took a book silkily in the hope of putting a stop to their mirth, but it was of no use. It lasted a week. That uncouth blunder soon got known throughout Paris and gave me a sort of reputation which I lost little by little, but only when I understood the double meanings of words better. Crebillon was much amused with my blunder, and he told me that I ought to have said after instead of behind. Ah, why have not all languages the same genius? But if the French laughed at my mistakes in speaking their language, I took my revenge amply by turning some of their idioms into ridicule. Sir, I once said to a gentleman, how is your wife? You do her great honour, sir. Pray, tell me, sir, what honour has to do with her health? I meet in the Bois de Berlon, a young man riding a horse which he cannot master, and at last he is thrown. I stop the horse, run to the assistants of the young man, and help him up. Did you hurt yourself, sir? Oh, many thanks, sir, au contraire. Why, au contraire, the deuce, it has done you good. Then begin again, sir. And a thousand similar expressions, entirely the reverse of good sense. But it is the genius of the language. I was one day paying my first visit to the wife of President de Aynne when her nephew, a brilliant butterfly, came in and she introduced me to him, mentioning my name in my country. Indeed, sir, you are Italian, said the young man. Upon my word, you present yourself so gracefully that I would have betted you were French. Sir, when I saw you, I was near making the same mistake. I would have betted you were Italian. Another time I was dining at Lady Lambert's, a numerous and brilliant company, someone remarked on my finger a Cornelian ring on which was engraved very beautifully the head of Louis XV. My ring went round the table and everybody thought the likeness was striking. A young Marquis who had the reputation of being a great wit said to me in the most serious tone, it is truly an antique. The stone, Madame, undoubtedly. Everyone laughed, except the thoughtless and beauty, who did not take any notice of it. Toward the end of the dinner, someone spoke of the rhinoceros, which was then shunned for 24 sews at the Saint-Germain fair. Let us go and see it was the cry. We got into the carriages and reached the fair. We took several turns before we could find the place. I was the only gentleman. I was taking care of two ladies in the midst of the crowd and the witty Marquis was walking in front of us. At the end of the alley where we had been told we would find the animal, there was a man placed to receive the money of the visitors. It is true that the man dressed in the African fashion was very dark and enormously stout, yet he had a human in very masculine form and the beautiful Marquis had no business to make a mistake. Nevertheless, the thoughtless young creature went up straight to him and said, are you the rhinoceros, sir? Go in, madam, go in. We were dying with laughter and the Marquis, when she had seen the animal, thought herself bound to apologize to the master, assuring him that she had never seen a rhinoceros in her life and therefore he could not feel offended if she had made the mistake. One evening I was in the foyer of the Italian comedy where between the acts the highest noblemen were in the habit of coming in order to converse and joke with the actresses who used to sit there waiting for their turn to appear on the stage. And I was seated near Camille, core line sister whom I amused by making love to her. A young counselor who objected to my occupying Camille's attention becoming a very conceited fellow attacked me of haunts on remark I made respecting an Italian play and took the liberty of shooing his bad temper by criticizing my native country. I was answering him in an indirect way, looking all the time at Camille who was laughing. Everybody had congregated around us and was attentive to the discussion which being carried on as an assault of wit had nothing to make it unpleasant. But it seemed to take a serious turn when the young Phop, turning the conversation on the police of the city, said that for some time it had been dangerous to walk alone at night through the streets of Paris. During the last month, he added, the plus degree has seen the hanging of seven men among whom were five Italians an extraordinary circumstance. Nothing extraordinary in that I answered. Honest men generally contrived to be hung far away from their native country. And as a proof of it, 60 Frenchmen have been hung in the course of the last year between Naples, Rome and Venice. Five times 12 or 60. So you see that it's only a fair exchange. The laughter was all on my side and the fine counselor went away and rather crestfallen. One of the gentlemen present at the discussion, finding my answer to his taste, came up to Camille and asked her in a whisper who I was. We got acquainted at once. It was Montchor de Marini whom I was delighted to know for the sake of my brother whose arrival in Paris I was expecting every day. Montchor de Marini was superintendent of the Royal Buildings and the Academy of Painting was under his jurisdiction. I mentioned my brother to him and he graciously promised to protect him. Another young nobleman who conversed with me invited me to visit him. It was the Duke de Matalona. I told him that I'd seen him, then only a child eight years before in Naples, and that I was under a great obligations to his uncle, Don Lelio. The young Duke was delighted and we became intimate friends. My brother arrived in Paris in the spring of 1751 and he lodged with me at Madame Quinson's. He began at once to work with success for private individuals, but his main idea being to compose a picture to be submitted to the judgment of the Academy, I introduced him to Montchor de Marini who received him with great distinction and encouraged him by assuring him of his protection. He immediately set to work with great diligence. Montchor de Marocini had been recalled and Montchor de Moltenigo had succeeded him as ambassador of the Republic. Montchor de Bragedine had recommended me to him and he tendered a friendly welcome both to me and to my brother in whose favor he felt interested as a Venetian and as a young artist seeking to build up a position by his talent. Montchor de Moltenigo was of a very pleasant nature. He liked gambling, although he was always unlucky at cards. He loved women and he was not more fortunate with them because he did not know how to manage them. Two years after his arrival in Paris he fell in love with Madame de Calonde and finding it impossible to win her affections. He killed himself. Madame la Dauphine was delivered of a prince, the Duke of Burgundy and the rejoicings in Doldsden at the birth of that child seem to me incredible now when I see what the same nation is doing against the king. The people want to be free. It is a noble ambition for mankind are not made to be the slaves of one man but with a nation populace, great, witty and giddy what will be the end of that revolution? Time alone can tell us. The Duke de Matalona procured me the acquaintance of the two princes, Don Marc-Antoine and Don Jean-Baptiste Boguiz from Rome who were enjoying themselves in Paris yet living without display. I had occasion to remark that when those Roman princes were presented at the court of France they were only styled Marquis. It was the same with the Russian princes to whom the title of prince was refused when they wanted to be presented. They were called Nise but they did not mind it because that word meant prince. The court of France has always been foolishly particular on the question of titles and it is even now swearing the title of Monchure although it is common enough everywhere every man who is not titled was called Sieux. I have remarked that the king never addressed his bishops otherwise than as Abbeys although they were generally very proud of their titles. The king likewise affected to Noah Nobleman only when his name was inscribed amongst those who served him. Yet the haughtiness of Louis the 15th had been inoculated in him by education. It was not in his nature. When an ambassador presented someone to him the person thus presented withdrew with all the certainty of having been seen by the king but that was all. Nevertheless Louis the 15th was very polite particularly with ladies even with his mistresses when in public. Whoever failed in respect towards them in the slightest manner was sure of disgrace and no king ever possessed to a greater extent the grand royal virtue which is called dissimulation. He kept a secret faithfully and he was delighted when he knew that no one but himself possessed it. The Chevalier Dionne is proof of this for the king alone knew and had always known that the Chevalier was a woman and all the long discussions which the false Chevalier had with the office for foreign affairs was a comedy which the king allowed to go on only because it amused him. Louis the 15th was great in all things and he would have had no faults if flattery had not forced them upon him but how could he possibly have supposed himself faulty in anything when everyone around him repeated constantly that he was the best of kings. A king in the opinion of which he was imbued respecting his own person was a being of nature by far too superior to ordinary men for him not to have had the right to consider himself akin to a god. Sad destiny of kings, bile flatterers are constantly doing everything necessary to reduce them below the condition of man. The princes of Ardure was delivered about that time a young prince, her husband the Neapolitan ambassador and treated Louis the 15th to be a godfather to the child. The king consented and presented his godson with a regiment but the mother who did not like the military career for her son refused it. The Marshal de Richelieu told me that he had never known the king laughed so hardly as when he heard of that singular refusal. At the Duchess de Foulvis I made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Gossine who was called Le Lotte. She was the mistress of Lord Albemarle, the English ambassador, a witty and very generous nobleman. One evening he complained of his mistress praising the beauty of the stars which were shining brightly over her head saying that she ought to know he could not give them to her. If Lord Albemarle had been ambassador to the court of France at the time of the erupture between France and England he would have arranged all difficulties amicably and the unfortunate war by which French lost Canada would have not taken place. There is no doubt that the harmony between two nations depends very often upon their respective ambassadors when there is any danger of a rupture. As to the noble Lord's mistress there was but one opinion respecting her. She was fit in every way to become his wife and the highest families of France did not think that she needed the title of Lady Albemarle to be received with distinction. No Lady considered it debasing to sit near her although she was well known as the mistress of the English Lord. She had passed from her mother's arms to those of Lord Albemarle at the age of 13 and her conduct was always of the highest respectability. She bore children whom the ambassador acknowledged legally and she died countess de revue. I shall have to mention her again in my memoirs. I had likewise occasioned to become acquainted with the Venetian Embassy with a Lady from Venice. The widow of an English baronet named Wynne. She was then coming from London with her children where she had been compelled to go in order to ensure them the inheritance of their late father which they would have lost if they had not declared themselves members of the Church of England. She was on her way back to Venice much pleased with her journey. She was accompanied by her eldest daughter a young girl of 12 years who notwithstanding her youth carried on her beautiful face all the signs of perfection. She is now living in Venice the widow of Count the Rosenberg who died in Venice ambassador of the Empress Queen Maria Theresa. She is surrounded by the brilliant halo of her excellent conduct and all her social virtues. No one can accuse her of any fault except that of being poor but she feels it only because it does not allow her to be as charitable as she might wish. The reader will see in the next chapter how I managed to embroil myself with the French police. End of chapter seven. Chapter eight, part one of the Memoise of Jacques Casanova, volume two. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Memoise of Jacques Casanova, volume two, Paris and Prison by Jacques Casanova translated by Arthur Machin. Episode six, chapter eight, part one. Chapter eight, my broil with Parisian justice. Mademoiselle Vézion. The youngest daughter of my landlady, Mademoiselle Quinson, a young girl between 15 and 16 years of age, was in the habit of often coming into 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 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 breakfast, but I was tired and wanted rest and I begged them both to withdraw. Soon after they 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, madame? 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 to not think of it. Towards the six months 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 my damn quinceone burst into my room in a high dungeon. 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 it. 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 Quinceone fully equipped for the battle. The commissary, after the preliminary questions, usual and all legal cases, asked me whether I admitted myself guilty towards the girl, Quinceone, of the injury of which the mother, their present personally, complained. Monsieur le commissinaire, 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. 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 me me. 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 when there is no law transgressed. If I am sentenced to pay, I shall appeal even to the very 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 Quinceaune 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 due to be brought up at the nation's expense. Soon afterwards Mimi ran away from her mother's house, and she has appeared on stage at Saint 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 tastes, 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 of that theater of the celebrated Chantilly, who had been the mistress of the Marchal des Saxes, and was called Favard, because the poet of that name had married her. She sang in the parody of Thetis e Pele by Monsieur de Fontel, a part of Tonton. A missed deafening applause. Her grace and talent won the love of a man of the greatest merit, the Abe de Vosnaux, with whom I was as intimate as with Crebillon. All the plays performed at the Italian comedy, under the name of Madame Favard, were written by the Abe, who became member of the academy after my departure from Paris. I cultivated in acquaintance the value of which I could appreciate, and he honored me with his friendship. It was, in my suggestions, that the Abe de Vosnaux conceive the idea of composing oratorios in poetry. They were sung for the first time at the Toulier, when the theaters were closed in consequence of some religious festival. That amiable Abe, 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 the news of the court. The king is yawning, he answered, because he must come to 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 François Hardig, now plenipotentiary of the emperor at the court of Saxony. The Abe de Vosnaux introduced me to Fontel, who was then 93 years of age, a fine wit, an amiable and learned man, celebrated for his quick repartees. Fontenel could not play 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 president of his works, and asked me if I liked the French plays. I told him that I had seen Thétis a pelé at the opera. That play was his own composition, and when I had praised it, he told me that it was a Thétis pelé. I was at the theater François last night, I said, and saw Athalie. It was a masterpiece of racine. Voltaire has been very wrong in accusing me of having criticized that tragedy, and in attributing to me an epigram, the author of which has never been known, in which ends with two very poor lines. I have been told that Monsieur de Fontel had been the tender friend of Madame de Tencine, that Monsieur de Alambert was the offspring of their intimacy, and that Laurent had only been his foster father. I knew de Alambert at Monsieur de Graffini'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 of 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 Leeds of Venice, I was delighted at the idea of seeing 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 Monsieur de Alambert, 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 efferences has disgusted me and I am too old to hope to see the end of it. Count de Luz, 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 Zoroaster by Monsieur de Causac. I had to adapt the 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 stuff box, and I thus contrived at the same time to please my mother very highly. It was about that time that Mlle. Vésillon 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 her 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 theater. By the greatest chance, she was brought to the Hotel de Borgonie, where I was then staying myself. In the morning I was told that there were two young Italians, brothers and sister, who did not appear very wealthy in the room next 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 came to offer you my services, as a countryman, and as a neighbor. A mattress on the floor told me where the young man had slept. A bed, standing in a recess, and was hid by curtains, made me guess where the sister was. I begged of her to excuse me, if I presented myself without inquiring whether she was up. She answered without seeing me that the journey, having greatly tired her, she 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 later, 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 expressed all the interest I felt for her. Her gratitude showed itself more by the tone of her voice than by her words, and her confidence already being captivated. She told me artlessly, and 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 advisor, 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 to you until you are in a position to return them to me. She accepted, expressing her heartfelt gratitude. Mademoiselle Vésillon 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, and 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 honor. 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 and respect towards her. I felt the effect of it myself, for in spite of her beautiful eyes, her fine figure, and of the freshness of her complexion, her transparent skin, her néglige, in one word, all that contempt a man in 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 one 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, my dear country woman, wealthy men despise all libertine women, except those who have been 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 favors. For, his passion once satisfied, his ardor will cool down, and you will find yourself deceived. Be wary of all 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 of 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 this if I did not think you a very charming person. Her brother joined us as we were talking together. He was a very good-looking young man of 18, well-made, but without any style about him. He spoke little, and his expression was devoid of individuality. We breakfast together, and having asked him, as we were at table, for what profession he felt an inclination, he answered that he was disposed through anything to earn an honorable living. Have you any peculiar talent? I write pretty well. That is something. When you go out mistrust everybody. Do not enter any café, and do not 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, today. Let me have it tomorrow morning, and we will see what can be done. As for you, mademoiselle, my books are at your disposal. I have your papers. Tomorrow I may have some news to tell you. We shall not see each other again today, 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 the 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 mademoiselle Vésillon to Monsieur des Argonsants, and I knew that in the meantime I could support her. I begged Sylvia to mention the matter to madame des Mont-Conciels, 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 mademoiselle Vésillon, 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 had 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. Lucy of Pazion 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 nearer a lamb which would perhaps become the prey of some greedy wolf. And she, with her noble feelings, her careful education, and a candor which an impure breath would perhaps destroy forever, was surely not destined for a lot of shame. I regretted I was not rich enough to make her fortune and to save her honor and virtue. I felt that I could neither make her mind 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, and without beginning a thing which would have too rapidly come to an end, and which would have compelled me to keep her for myself. And 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. End of Chapter 8, Part 1 Chapter 8 of the Memoise of Jacques Casanova, Volume 2. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Memoise of Jacques Casanova, Volume 2. Paris and Prison by Jacques-Como Casanova, translated by Arthur Machin. Episode 6, Chapter 8, Part 2. I had remained about four hours with mademoiselle Vézion, 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 show 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 amphitheater where I had left her, telling her 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 left the theater, I went to supp at Silvius and returned to the hotel. I was surprised at the sight of an elegant carriage. I inquired to whom it belonged, and I was told that it was the carriage of a young nobleman who had supped with mademoiselle Vézion. She was getting on. The first thing next morning, as I was putting my head out 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 in a minute after I heard him enter the room of mademoiselle Vézion. 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, Vézion 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 handsome. He wishes to take 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 mademoiselle Vézion, 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 to me with my best thanks. The Count de Norbaugh feels interested in me and wishes to assist me in 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 it is, said I to myself, a second Lucie de Pazion, 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 all of it. I went to the theater Francais in the evening and inquired about Norbaugh. 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 theaters 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, Vizion 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, 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. Monsieur de Naubone, who I thought an honest man because I wanted him to be such, came to sit by me, where you had left me at the theater. 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 Naubone told me that he did not want your assistance, so he could act by himself. I believed him, and I had 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 Vizion. 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 be a prey to sorrow if I had not been so imprudent as to leave you alone at the theater. Alas, sir, do not say so. Aught I to reproach you because you thought me so virtuous? Well, in a few words, the monster promised to show me every care, every attention, on the condition of my giving him an undeniable proof of my affection and confidence, namely to take a lodging without my brother and the house of a woman who 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 we would both be 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 these presents from a young nobleman who showed me so much interest. And I thought I could accept these presents from a young nobleman who showed 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 had 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, then a hackney coach would bring me back to this 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 a half 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 the week before. The infamous proceedings of Nourbonne disgusted me to that extent. If I had known where to find him alone, I would have 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 Nourbonne's respectable procures. I could guess even more than I wanted to know, and to assist upon that recital would have humiliated Mademoiselle Vésillon. I could see all the infamy of the count and the taking back of the watch which belonged to her as a gift, in 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 herself 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 shown in your countenance a week ago. Then I could read on your face honesty, candor, 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 have a claim upon it which you do not have a week ago. Be quite certain, I beg you, 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 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 Navest tricks played in Paris by men who think nothing but of deceiving young girls. I told her of 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 Norbone, because that misfortune would give her prudence for the future. During that long tete-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 today? 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 favor those who will see me, and if I can enjoy a quiet sleep throughout the next night I shall feel 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 meantime. Oh, never mind my brother. His presence is, on the contrary, of great importance. Recollect, my dear Vizion. 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 have deserved. But if you go with your brother and me, your countrymen, you will 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. In 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 Mademoiselle Vizion, I told the coachman to drive us to Gros Cailloux, where we made an excellent impromptu dinner, the cheerfulness of the guests making up for the deficiencies of the servants. Vizion, 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 an idea of asking him to teach her dancing. I informed him of her position, of the reason which 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 examined the figure and the general confirmation of the girl he said to her, I will get Lanny to take you for the ballet at the opera. Then, I said, you must begin your lessons tomorrow. Mademoiselle Vizion 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 intemporized like a minister of state? I can dance the minuet, and my ear is good enough to enable me to get through a quadril, but with the exception of that I cannot dance one step. Most of the ballet girls, said Baletti, no, no more than you do. And how much must I ask from Mr. Lanny? I do not think I can expect much. Nothing. The ballet girls are not paid. Then what 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 find ten wealthy noblemen who will dispute amongst themselves for the honor 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 it 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 a certain whether I was serious or only justing. 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 grandlady. I would not be the famed echambra, even of the queen. And, figurate at the opera? Much rather. You are smiling? Yes, it is enough to make me laugh. I, the mistress of a rich noblemen 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 means to support myself? I, my dear girl, my friend Baletti and all my friends, without other interests 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 mademoiselle Visillon at the hotel, and accompanied Baletti to his mother's. At supper time my friend begged Sylvia to speak to Monsieur Lanny in favor of our protege. Sylvia 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 chorus singers at the opera. It 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, seemed 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 need 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 Mademoiselle Vézion'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 everything, 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. One must 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. How can that happiness be felt? By all the pleasure which the philosopher can procure while he is conscious of having attained them by his own exertions, and especially by getting rid of the many prejudices which make the majority of men a troupe 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 of thinking of the happiness afforded by rest. The philosopher is a person who refuses no pleasures which do not produce greater sorrows and knows how to create new ones. And you say that 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 that lasts throughout life. I will tell you in a few words that what 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 principle 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 an 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 the only 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 Monsieur Belletti will give me tomorrow, 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 Vezillon, 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 Vezillon, your intelligence is charming. And it is your work, dear friend. 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 parted in the morning that we discovered that the door of the room had remained open all night. Belletti 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 the 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 Trezin or Tran. 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 56, 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. End of Chapter 8, Part 2