possession of her daughter, and of all the furniture, which she would
immediately take away.

The order was carried into execution to the very letter. I was with the
mother in a gondola as near as possible to the house, and I had provided
a large boat in which the sbirri stowed all the furniture found on the
premises. When it was all done, the daughter was brought to the gondola,
and she was extremely surprised to see me. Her mother kissed her, and
told her that I would be her husband the very next day. She answered that
she was delighted, and that nothing had been left in her tyrant's house
except his bed and his clothes.

When we reached Castello, I ordered the furniture to be brought out of
the boat; we had dinner, and I told the three women that they must go
back to Lusia, where I would join them as soon as I had settled all my
affairs. I spent the afternoon gaily with my intended. She told us that
the abbe was dressing when the bailiff presented the order of the Council
of Ten, with injunctions to allow its free execution under penalty of
death; that the abbe finished his toilet, went out to say his mass, and
that everything had been done without the slightest opposition. "I was
told," she added, "that my mother was waiting for me in the gondola, but
I did not expect to find you, and I never suspected that you were at the
bottom of the whole affair."

"It is the first proof I give you of my love."

These words made her smile very pleasantly.

I took care to have a good supper and some excellent wines, and after we
had spent two hours at table in the midst of the joys of Bacchus, I
devoted four more to a pleasant tete-a-tete with my intended bride.

The next morning, after breakfast, I had the whole of the furniture
stowed in a peotta, which I had engaged for the purpose and paid for
beforehand. I gave ten more sequins to the mother, and sent them away all
three in great delight. The affair was completed to my honour as well as
to my entire satisfaction, and I returned home.

The case had made so much noise that my friends could not have remained
ignorant of it; the consequence was that, when they saw me, they shewed
their surprise and sorrow. De la Haye embraced me with an air of profound
grief, but it was a feigned feeling--a harlequin's dress, which he had
the talent of assuming with the greatest facility. M. de Bragadin alone
laughed heartily, saying to the others that they did not understand the
affair, and that it was the forerunner of something great which was known
only to heavenly spirits. On my side, being ignorant of the opinion they
entertained of the matter, and certain that they were not informed of all
the circumstances, I laughed like M. de Bragadin, but said nothing. I had
nothing to fear, and I wanted to amuse myself with all that would be
said.

We sat down to table, and M. Barbaro was the first to tell me in a
friendly manner that he hoped at least that this was not the day after my
wedding.

"Then people say that I am married?"

"It is said everywhere and by everybody. The members of the Council
themselves believe it, and they have good reason to believe that they are
right."

"To be right in believing such a thing, they ought to be certain of it,
and those gentlemen have no such certainty. As they are not infallible
any more than any one, except God, I tell you that they are mistaken. I
like to perform good actions and to get pleasure for my money, but not at
the expense of my liberty: Whenever you want to know my affairs,
recollect that you can receive information about them only from me, and
public rumour is only good to amuse fools."

"But," said M. Dandolo, "you spent the night with the person who is
represented as your wife?"

"Quite true, but I have no account to give to anyone respecting what I
have done last night. Are you not of my opinion, M. de la Haye?"

"I wish you would not ask my opinion, for I do not know. But I must say
that public rumour ought not to be despised. The deep affection I have
for you causes me to grieve for what the public voice says about you."

"How is it that those reports do not grieve M. de Bragadin, who has
certainly greater affection for me than you have?"

"I respect you, but I have learned at my own expense that slander is to
be feared. It is said that, in order to get hold of a young girl who was
residing with her uncle--a worthy priest, you suborned a woman who
declared herself to be the girl's mother, and thus deceived the Supreme
Council, through the authority of which she obtained possession of the
girl for you. The bailiff sent by the Council swears that you were in the
gondola with the false mother when the young girl joined her. It is said
that the deed, in virtue of which you caused the worthy ecclesiastic's
furniture to be carried off, is false, and you are blamed for having made
the highest body of the State a stepping-stone to crime. In fine, it is
said that, even if you have married the girl, and no doubt of it is
entertained, the members of the Council will not be silent as to the
fraudulent means you have had recourse to in order to carry out your
intentions successfully."

"That is a very long speech," I said to him, coldly, "but learn from me
that a wise man who has heard a criminal accusation related with so many
absurd particulars ceases to be wise when he makes himself the echo of
what he has heard, for if the accusation should turn out to be a calumny,
he would himself become the accomplice of the slanderer."

After that sentence, which brought the blood to the face of the Jesuit,
but which my friends thought very wise, I entreated him, in a meaning
voice, to spare his anxiety about me, and to be quite certain that I knew
the laws of honour, and that I had judgment enough to take care of
myself, and to let foul tongues say what they liked about me, just as I
did when I heard them speak ill of him.

The adventure was the talk of the city for five or six days, after which
it was soon forgotten.

But three months having elapsed without my having paid any visit to
Lusia, or having answered the letters written to me by the damigella
Marchetti, and without sending her the money she claimed of me, she made
up her mind to take certain proceedings which might have had serious
consequences, although they had none whatever in the end.

One day, Ignacio, the bailiff of the dreaded tribunal of the State
inquisitors, presented himself as I was sitting at table with my friends,
De la Haye, and two other guests. He informed me that the Cavaliere
Cantarini dal Zoffo wished to see me, and would wait for me the next
morning at such an hour at the Madonna de l'Orto. I rose from the table
and answered, with a bow, that I would not fail to obey the wishes of his
excellency. The bailiff then left us.

I could not possibly guess what such a high dignitary of State could want
with my humble person, yet the message made us rather anxious, for
Cantarini dal Zoffo was one of the Inquisitors, that is to say, a bird of
very ill omen. M. de Bragadin, who had been Inquisitor while he was
Councillor, and therefore knew the habits of the tribunal, told me that I
had nothing to fear.

"Ignacio was dressed in private clothes," he added, "and therefore he did
not come as the official messenger of the dread tribunal. M. Cantarini
wishes to speak to you only as a private citizen, as he sends you word to
call at his palace and not at the court-house. He is an elderly man,
strict but just, to whom you must speak frankly and without equivocating,
otherwise you would make matters worse."

I was pleased with M. de Bragadin's advice, which was of great use to me.
I called at the appointed time.

I was immediately announced, and I had not long to wait. I entered the
room, and his excellency, seated at a table, examined me from head to
foot for one minute without speaking to me; he then rang the bell, and
ordered his servant to introduce the two ladies who were waiting in the
next room. I guessed at once what was the matter, and felt no surprise
when I saw the woman Marchetti and her daughter. His excellency asked me
if I knew them.

"I must know them, monsignor, as one of them will become my wife when she
has convinced me by her good conduct that she is worthy of that honour."

"Her conduct is good, she lives with her mother at Lusia; you have
deceived her. Why do you postpone your marriage with her? Why do you not
visit her? You never answer her letters, and you let her be in want."

"I cannot marry her, your excellency, before I have enough to support
her. That will come in three or four years, thanks to a situation which
M. de Bragadin, my only protector, promises to obtain for me. Until then
she must live honestly, and support herself by working. I will only marry
her when I am convinced of her honesty, and particularly when I am
certain that she has given up all intercourse with the abbe, her cousin
in the fourth degree. I do not visit her because my confessor and my
conscience forbid me to go to her house."

"She wishes you to give her a legal promise of marriage, and
sustentation."

"Monsignor, I am under no obligation to give her a promise of marriage,
and having no means whatever I cannot support her. She must earn her own
living with her mother."

"When she lived with her cousin," said her mother, "she never wanted
anything, and she shall go back to him."

"If she returns to his house I shall not take the trouble of taking her
out of his hands a second time, and your excellency will then see that I
was right to defer my marriage with her until I was convinced of her
honesty."

The judge told me that my presence, was no longer necessary. It was the
end of the affair, and I never heard any more about it. The recital of
the dialogue greatly amused my friends.

At the beginning of the Carnival of 1750 I won a prize of three thousand
ducats at the lottery. Fortune made me that present when I did not
require it, for I had held the bank during the autumn, and had won. It
was at a casino where no nobleman dared to present himself, because one
of the partners was an officer in the service of the Duke de Montalegre,
the Spanish Ambassador. The citizens of Venice felt ill at ease with the
patricians, and that is always the case under an aristocratic government,
because equality exists in reality only between the members of such a
government.

As I intended to take a trip to Paris, I placed one thousand sequins in
M. de Bragadin's hands, and with that project in view I had the courage
to pass the carnival without risking my money at the faro-table. I had
taken a share of one-fourth in the bank of an honest patrician, and early
in Lent he handed me a large sum.

Towards mid-Lent my friend Baletti returned from Mantua to Venice. He was
engaged at the St. Moses Theatre as ballet-master during the Fair of the
Assumption. He was with Marina, but they did not live together. She made
the conquest of an English Jew, called Mendez, who spent a great deal of
money for her. That Jew gave me good news of Therese, whom he had known
in Naples, and in whose hands he had left some of his spoils. The
information pleased me, and I was very glad to have been prevented by
Henriette from joining Therese in Naples, as I had intended, for I should
certainly have fallen in love with her again, and God knows what the
consequences might have been.

It was at that time that Bavois was appointed captain in the service of
the Republic; he rose rapidly in his profession, as I shall mention
hereafter.

De la Haye undertook the education of a young nobleman called Felix
Calvi, and a short time afterwards he accompanied him to Poland. I met
him again in Vienna three years later.

I was making my preparations to go to the Fair of Reggio, then to Turin,
where the whole of Italy was congregating for the marriage of the Duke of
Savoy with a princess of Spain, daughter of Philip V., and lastly to
Paris, where, Madame la Dauphine being pregnant, magnificent preparations
were made in the expectation of the birth of a prince. Baletti was
likewise on the point of undertaking the same journey. He was recalled by
his parents, who were dramatic artists: his mother was the celebrated
Silvia.

Baletti was engaged at the Italian Theatre in Paris as dancer and first
gentleman. I could not choose a companion more to my taste, more
agreeable, or in a better position to procure me numerous advantageous
acquaintances in Paris.

I bade farewell to my three excellent friends, promising to return within
two years.

I left my brother Francois in the studio of Simonetti, the painter of
battle pieces, known as the Parmesan. I gave him a promise to think of
him in Paris, where, at that time particularly, great talent was always
certain of a high fortune. My readers will see how I kept my word.

I likewise left in Venice my brother Jean, who had returned to that city
after having travelled through Italy with Guarienti. He was on the point
of going to Rome, where he remained fourteen years in the studio of
Raphael Mengs. He left Rome for Dresden in 1764, where he died in the
year 1795.

Baletti started before me, and I left Venice, to meet him in Reggio, on
the 1st of June, 1750. I was well fitted out, well supplied with money,
and sure not to want for any, if I led a proper life. We shall soon see,
dear reader, what judgment you will pass on my conduct, or rather I shall
not see it, for I know that when you are able to judge, I shall no longer
care for your sentence.

CHAPTER V

I Stop at Ferrara, Where I Have a Comic Adventure--My Arrival in Paris

Precisely at twelve o'clock the peotta landed me at Ponte di Lago Oscuro,
and I immediately took a post-chaise to reach Ferrara in time for dinner.
I put up at St. Mark's Hotel. I was following the waiter up the stairs,
when a joyful uproar, which suddenly burst from a room the door of which
was open, made me curious to ascertain the cause of so much mirth. I
peeped into the room, and saw some twelve persons, men and women, seated
round a well-supplied table. It was a very natural thing, and I was
moving on, when I was stopped by the exclamation, "Ah, here he is!"
uttered by the pretty voice of a woman, and at the same moment, the
speaker, leaving the table, came to me with open arms and embraced me,
saying,

"Quick, quick, a seat for him near me; take his luggage to his room."

A young man came up, and she said to him, "Well, I told you he would
arrive to-day?"

She made me sit near her at the table, after I had been saluted by all
the guests who had risen to do me honour.

"My dear cousin," she said, addressing me, "you must be hungry;" and as
she spoke she squeezed my foot under the table. "Here is my intended
husband whom I beg to introduce to you, as well as my father and
mother-in-law. The other guests round the table are friends of the
family. But, my dear cousin, tell me why my mother has not come with
you?"

At last I had to open my lips!

"Your mother, my dear cousin, will be here in three or four days, at the
latest."

I thought that my newly-found cousin was unknown to me, but when I looked
at her with more attention, I fancied I recollected her features. She was
the Catinella, a dancer of reputation, but I had never spoken to her
before. I easily guessed that she was giving me an impromptu part in a
play of her own composition, and I was to be a 'deux ex machina'.
Whatever is singular and unexpected has always attracted me, and as my
cousin was pretty, I lent myself most willingly to the joke, entertaining
no doubt that she would reward me in an agreeable manner. All I had to do
was to play my part well, but without implicating myself. Therefore,
pretending to be very hungry, I gave her the opportunity of speaking and
of informing me by hints of what I had to know, in order not to make
blunders. Understanding the reason of my reserve, she afforded me the
proof of her quick intelligence by saying sometimes to one person,
sometimes to the other, everything it was necessary for me to know. Thus
I learnt that the wedding could not take place until the arrival of her
mother, who was to bring the wardrobe and the diamonds of my cousin. I
was the precentor going to Turin to compose the music of the opera which
was to be represented at the marriage of the Duke of Savoy. This last
discovery pleased me greatly, because I saw that I should have no
difficulty in taking my departure the next morning, and I began to enjoy
the part I had to play. Yet, if I had not reckoned upon the reward, I
might very well have informed the honourable company that my false cousin
was mad, but, although Catinella was very near thirty, she was very
pretty and celebrated for her intrigues; that was enough, and she could
turn me round her little finger.

The future mother-in-law was seated opposite, and to do me honour she
filled a glass and offered it to me. Already identified with my part in
the comedy, I put forth my hand to take the glass, but seeing that my
hand was somewhat bent, she said to me,

"What is the matter with your hand, sir?"

"Nothing serious, madam; only a slight sprain which a little rest will
soon cure."

At these words, Catinella, laughing heartily, said that she regretted the
accident because it would deprive her friends of the pleasure they would
have enjoyed in hearing me play the harpsichord.

"I am glad to find it a laughing matter, cousin."

"I laugh, because it reminds me of a sprained ankle which I once feigned
to have in order not to dance."

After coffee, the mother-in-law, who evidently understood what was
proper, said that most likely my cousin wanted to talk with me on family
matters, and that we ought to be left alone.

Every one of the guests left the room.

As soon as I was alone with her in my room, which was next to her own she
threw herself on a sofa, and gave way to a most immoderate fit of
laughter.

"Although I only know you by name," she said to me, "I have entire
confidence in you, but you will do well to go away to-morrow. I have been
here for two months without any money. I have nothing but a few dresses
and some linen, which I should have been compelled to sell to defray my
expenses if I had not been lucky enough to inspire the son of the
landlord with the deepest love. I have flattered his passion by promising
to become his wife, and to bring him as a marriage portion twenty
thousand crowns' worth of diamonds which I am supposed to have in Venice,
and which my mother is expected to bring with her. But my mother has
nothing and knows nothing of the affair, therefore she is not likely to
leave Venice."

"But, tell me, lovely madcap, what will be the end of this extravaganza?
I am afraid it will take a tragic turn at the last."

"You are mistaken; it will remain a comedy, and a very amusing one, too.
I am expecting every hour the arrival of Count Holstein, brother of the
Elector of Mainz. He has written to me from Frankfort; he has left that
city, and must by this time have reached Venice. He will take me to the
Fair of Reggio, and if my intended takes it into his head to be angry,
the count will thrash him and pay my bill, but I am determined that he
shall be neither thrashed nor paid. As I go away, I have only to whisper
in his ear that I will certainly return, and it will be all right. I know
my promise to become his wife as soon as I come back will make him
happy."

"That's all very well! You are as witty as a cousin of Satan, but I shall
not wait your return to marry you; our wedding must take place at once."

"What folly! Well, wait until this evening."

"Not a bit of it, for I can almost fancy I hear the count's carriage. If
he should not arrive, we can continue the sport during the night."

"Do you love me?"

"To distraction! but what does it matter? However, your excellent comedy
renders you worthy of adoration. Now, suppose we do not waste our time."

"You are right: it is an episode, and all the more agreeable for being
impromptu."

I can well recollect that I found it a delightful episode. Towards
evening all the family joined us again, a walk was proposed, and we were
on the point of going out, when a carriage drawn by six post-horses
noisily entered the yard. Catinella looked through the window, and
desired to be left alone, saying that it was a prince who had come to see
her. Everybody went away, she pushed me into my room and locked me in. I
went to the window, and saw a nobleman four times as big as myself
getting out of the carriage. He came upstairs, entered the room of the
intended bride, and all that was left to me was the consolation of having
seized fortune by the forelock, the pleasure of hearing their
conversation, and a convenient view, through a crevice in the partition,
of what Catinella contrived to do with that heavy lump of flesh. But at
last the stupid amusement wearied me, for it lasted five hours, which
were employed in amorous caresses, in packing Catinella's rags, in
loading them on the carriage, in taking supper, and in drinking numerous
bumpers of Rhenish wine. At midnight the count left the hotel, carrying
away with him the beloved mistress of the landlord's son.

No one during those long hours had come to my room, and I had not called.
I was afraid of being discovered, and I did not know how far the German
prince would have been pleased if he had found out that he had an
indiscreet witness of the heavy and powerless demonstrations of his
tenderness, which were a credit to neither of the actors, and which
supplied me with ample food for thoughts upon the miseries of mankind.

After the departure of the heroine, catching through the crevice a
glimpse of the abandoned lover, I called out to him to unlock my door.
The poor silly fellow told me piteously that, Catinella having taken the
key with her, it would be necessary to break the door open. I begged him
to have it done at once, because I was hungry. As soon as I was out of my
prison I had my supper, and the unfortunate lover kept me company. He
told me that Catinella had found a moment to promise him that she would
return within six weeks, that she was shedding tears in giving him that
assurance, and that she had kissed him with great tenderness.

"Has the prince paid her expenses?"

"Not at all. We would not have allowed him to do it, even if he had
offered. My future wife would have felt offended, for you can have no
idea of the delicacy of her feelings."

"What does your father say of her departure?"

"My father always sees the worst side of everything; he says that she
will never come back, and my mother shares his opinion rather than mine.
But you, signor maestro, what do you think?"

"That if she has promised to return, she will be sure to keep her word."

"Of course; for if she did not mean to come back, she would not have
given me her promise."

"Precisely; I call that a good argument."

I had for my supper what was left of the meal prepared by the count's
cook, and I drank a bottle of excellent Rhenish wine which Catinella had
juggled away to treat her intended husband, and which the worthy fellow
thought could not have a better destination than to treat his future
cousin. After supper I took post-horses and continued my journey,
assuring the unhappy, forlorn lover that I would do all I could to
persuade my cousin to come back very soon. I wanted to pay my bill, but
he refused to receive any money. I reached Bologna a few minutes after
Catinella, and put up at the same hotel, where I found an opportunity of
telling her all her lover had said. I arrived in Reggio before her, but I
could not speak to her in that city, for she was always in the company of
her potent and impotent lord. After the fair, during which nothing of
importance occurred to me, I left Reggio with my friend Baletti and we
proceeded to Turin, which I wanted to see, for the first time I had gone
to that city with Henriette I had stopped only long enough to change
horses.

I found everything beautiful in Turin, the city, the court, the theatre,
and the women, including the Duchess of Savoy, but I could not help
laughing when I was told that the police of the city was very efficient,
for the streets were full of beggars. That police, however, was the
special care of the king, who was very intelligent; if we are to believe
history, but I confess that I laughed when I saw the ridiculous face of
that sovereign.

I had never seen a king before in my life, and a foolish idea made me
suppose that a king must be preeminent--a very rare being--by his beauty
and the majesty of his appearance, and in everything superior to the rest
of men. For a young Republican endowed with reason, my idea was not,
after all, so very foolish, but I very soon got rid of it when I saw that
King of Sardinia, ugly, hump-backed, morose and vulgar even in his
manners. I then realized that it was possible to be a king without being
entirely a man.

I saw L'Astrua and Gafarello, those two magnificent singers on the stage,
and I admired the dancing of La Geofroi, who married at that time a
worthy dancer named Bodin.

During my stay in Turin, no amorous fancy disturbed the peace of my soul,
except an accident which happened to me with the daughter of my
washerwoman, and which increased my knowledge in physics in a singular
manner. That girl was very pretty, and, without being what might be
called in love with her, I wished to obtain her favours. Piqued at my not
being able to obtain an appointment from her, I contrived one day to
catch her at the bottom of a back staircase by which she used to come to
my room, and, I must confess, with the intention of using a little
violence, if necessary.

Having concealed myself for that purpose at the time I expected her, I
got hold of her by surprise, and, half by persuasion, half by the
rapidity of my attack, she was brought to a right position, and I lost no
time in engaging in action. But at the first movement of the connection a
loud explosion somewhat cooled my ardour, the more so that the young girl
covered her face with her hands as if she wished to hide her shame.
However, encouraging her with a loving kiss, I began again. But, a
report, louder even than the first, strikes at the same moment my ear and
my nose. I continue; a third, a fourth report, and, to make a long matter
short, each movement gives an explosion with as much regularity as a
conductor making the time for a piece of music!

This extraordinary phenomenon, the confusion of the poor girl, our
position--everything, in fact, struck me as so comical, that I burst into
the most immoderate laughter, which compelled me to give up the
undertaking. Ashamed and confused, the young girl ran away, and I did
nothing to hinder her. After that she never had the courage to present
herself before me. I remained seated on the stairs for a quarter of an
hour after she had left me, amused at the funny character of a scene
which even now excites my mirth. I suppose that the young girl was
indebted for her virtue to that singular disease, and most likely, if it
were common to all the fair sex, there would be fewer gallant women,
unless we had different organs; for to pay for one moment of enjoyment at
the expense both of the hearing and of the smell is to give too high a
price.

Baletti, being in a hurry to reach Paris, where great preparations were
being made for the birth of a Duke of Burgundy--for the duchess was near
the time of her delivery--easily persuaded me to shorten my stay in
Turin. We therefore left that city, and in five days we arrived at Lyons,
where I stayed about a week.

Lyons is a very fine city in which at that time there were scarcely three
or four noble houses opened to strangers; but, in compensation, there
were more than a hundred hospitable ones belonging to merchants,
manufacturers, and commission agents, amongst whom was to be found an
excellent society remarkable for easy manners, politeness, frankness, and
good style, without the absurd pride to be met with amongst the nobility
in the provinces, with very few honourable exceptions. It is true that
the standard of good manners is below that of Paris, but one soon gets
accustomed to it. The wealth of Lyons arises from good taste and low
prices, and Fashion is the goddess to whom that city owes its prosperity.
Fashion alters every year, and the stuff, to which the fashion of the day
gives a value equal, say to thirty, is the next year reduced to fifteen
or twenty, and then it is sent to foreign countries where it is bought up
as a novelty.

The manufacturers of Lyons give high salaries to designers of talent; in
that lies the secret of their success. Low prices come from
Competition--a fruitful source of wealth, and a daughter of Liberty.
Therefore, a government wishing to establish on a firm basis the
prosperity of trade must give commerce full liberty; only being careful
to prevent the frauds which private interests, often wrongly understood,
might invent at the expense of public and general interests. In fact, the
government must hold the scales, and allow the citizens to load them as
they please.

In Lyons I met the most famous courtezan of Venice. It was generally
admitted that her equal had never been seen. Her name was Ancilla. Every
man who saw her coveted her, and she was so kindly disposed that she
could not refuse her favours to anyone; for if all men loved her one
after the other, she returned the compliment by loving them all at once,
and with her pecuniary advantages were only a very secondary
consideration.

Venice has always been blessed with courtezans more celebrated by their
beauty than their wit. Those who were most famous in my younger days were
Ancilla and another called Spina, both the daughters of gondoliers, and
both killed very young by the excesses of a profession which, in their
eyes, was a noble one. At the age of twenty-two, Ancilla turned a dancer
and Spina became a singer. Campioni, a celebrated Venetian dancer,
imparted to the lovely Ancilla all the graces and the talents of which
her physical perfections were susceptible, and married her. Spina had for
her master a castrato who succeeded in making of her only a very ordinary
singer, and in the absence of talent she was compelled, in order to get a
living, to make the most of the beauty she had received from nature.

I shall have occasion to speak again of Ancilla before her death. She was
then in Lyons with her husband; they had just returned from England,
where they had been greatly applauded at the Haymarket Theatre. She had
stopped in Lyons only for her pleasure, and, the moment she shewed
herself, she had at her feet the most brilliant young men of the town,
who were the slaves of her slightest caprice. Every day parties of
pleasure, every evening magnificent suppers, and every night a great faro
bank. The banker at the gaming table was a certain Don Joseph Marratti,
the same man whom I had known in the Spanish army under the name of Don
Pepe il Cadetto, and a few years afterwards assumed the name of Afflisio,
and came to such a bad end. That faro bank won in a few days three
hundred thousand francs. In a capital that would not have been considered
a large sum, but in a commercial and industrial city like Lyons it raised
the alarm amongst the merchants, and the Ultramontanes thought of taking
their leave.

It was in Lyons that a respectable individual, whose acquaintance I made
at the house of M. de Rochebaron, obtained for me the favour of being
initiated in the sublime trifles of Freemasonry. I arrived in Paris a
simple apprentice; a few months after my arrival I became companion and
master; the last is certainly the highest degree in Freemasonry, for all
the other degrees which I took afterwards are only pleasing inventions,
which, although symbolical, add nothing to the dignity of master.

No one in this world can obtain a knowledge of everything, but every man
who feels himself endowed with faculties, and can realize the extent of
his moral strength, should endeavour to obtain the greatest possible
amount of knowledge. A well-born young man who wishes to travel and know
not only the world, but also what is called good society, who does not
want to find himself, under certain circumstances, inferior to his
equals, and excluded from participating in all their pleasures, must get
himself initiated in what is called Freemasonry, even if it is only to
know superficially what Freemasonry is. It is a charitable institution,
which, at certain times and in certain places, may have been a pretext
for criminal underplots got up for the overthrow of public order, but is
there anything under heaven that has not been abused? Have we not seen
the Jesuits, under the cloak of our holy religion, thrust into the
parricidal hand of blind enthusiasts the dagger with which kings were to
be assassinated! All men of importance, I mean those whose social
existence is marked by intelligence and merit, by learning or by wealth,
can be (and many of them are) Freemasons: is it possible to suppose that
such meetings, in which the initiated, making it a law never to speak,
'intra muros', either of politics, or of religions, or of governments,
converse only concerning emblems which are either moral or trifling; is
it possible to suppose, I repeat, that those meetings, in which the
governments may have their own creatures, can offer dangers sufficiently
serious to warrant the proscriptions of kings or the excommunications of
Popes?

In reality such proceedings miss the end for which they are undertaken,
and the Pope, in spite of his infallibility, will not prevent his
persecutions from giving Freemasonry an importance which it would perhaps
have never obtained if it had been left alone. Mystery is the essence of
man's nature, and whatever presents itself to mankind under a mysterious
appearance will always excite curiosity and be sought, even when men are
satisfied that the veil covers nothing but a cypher.

Upon the whole, I would advise all well-born young men, who intend to
travel, to become Freemasons; but I would likewise advise them to be
careful in selecting a lodge, because, although bad company cannot have
any influence while inside of the lodge, the candidate must guard against
bad acquaintances.

Those who become Freemasons only for the sake of finding out the secret
of the order, run a very great risk of growing old under the trowel
without ever realizing their purpose. Yet there is a secret, but it is so
inviolable that it has never been confided or whispered to anyone. Those
who stop at the outward crust of things imagine that the secret consists
in words, in signs, or that the main point of it is to be found only in
reaching the highest degree. This is a mistaken view: the man who guesses
the secret of Freemasonry, and to know it you must guess it, reaches that
point only through long attendance in the lodges, through deep thinking,
comparison, and deduction. He would not trust that secret to his best
friend in Freemasonry, because he is aware that if his friend has not
found it out, he could not make any use of it after it had been whispered
in his ear. No, he keeps his peace, and the secret remains a secret.

Everything done in a lodge must be secret; but those who have
unscrupulously revealed what is done in the lodge, have been unable to
reveal that which is essential; they had no knowledge of it, and had they
known it, they certainly would not have unveiled the mystery of the
ceremonies.

The impression felt in our days by the non-initiated is of the same
nature as that felt in former times by those who were not initiated in
the mysteries enacted at Eleusis in honour of Ceres. But the mysteries of
Eleusis interested the whole of Greece, and whoever had attained some
eminence in the society of those days had an ardent wish to take a part
in those mysterious ceremonies, while Freemasonry, in the midst of many
men of the highest merit, reckons a crowd of scoundrels whom no society
ought to acknowledge, because they are the refuse of mankind as far as
morality is concerned.

In the mysteries of Ceres, an inscrutable silence was long kept, owing to
the veneration in which they were held. Besides, what was there in them
that could be revealed? The three words which the hierophant said to the
initiated? But what would that revelation have come to? Only to dishonour
the indiscreet initiate, for they were barbarous words unknown to the
vulgar. I have read somewhere that the three sacred words of the
mysteries of Eleusis meant: Watch, and do no evil. The sacred words and
the secrets of the various masonic degrees are about as criminal.

The initiation in the mysteries of Eleusis lasted nine days. The
ceremonies were very imposing, and the company of the highest. Plutarch
informs us that Alcibiades was sentenced to death and his property
confiscated, because he had dared to turn the mysteries into ridicule in
his house. He was even sentenced to be cursed by the priests and
priestesses, but the curse was not pronounced because one of the
priestesses opposed it, saying:

"I am a priestess to bless and not to curse!"

Sublime words! Lessons of wisdom and of morality which the Pope despises,
but which the Gospel teaches and which the Saviour prescribes.

In our days nothing is important, and nothing is sacred, for our
cosmopolitan philosophers.

Botarelli publishes in a pamphlet all the ceremonies of the Freemasons,
and the only sentence passed on him is:

"He is a scoundrel. We knew that before!"

A prince in Naples, and M. Hamilton in his own house, perform the miracle
of St. Januarius; they are, most likely, very merry over their
performance, and many more with them. Yet the king wears on his royal
breast a star with the following device around the image of St.
Januarius: 'In sanguine foedus'. In our days everything is inconsistent,
and nothing has any meaning. Yet it is right to go ahead, for to stop on
the road would be to go from bad to worse.

We left Lyons in the public diligence, and were five days on our road to
Paris. Baletti had given notice of his departure to his family; they
therefore knew when to expect him. We were eight in the coach and our
seats were very uncomfortable, for it was a large oval in shape, so that
no one had a corner. If that vehicle had been built in a country where
equality was a principle hallowed by the laws, it would not have been a
bad illustration. I thought it was absurd, but I was in a foreign
country, and I said nothing. Besides, being an Italian, would it have
been right for me not to admire everything which was French, and
particularly in France?--Example, an oval diligence: I respected the
fashion, but I found it detestable, and the singular motion of that
vehicle had the same effect upon me as the rolling of a ship in a heavy
sea. Yet it was well hung, but the worst jolting would have disturbed me
less.

As the diligence undulates in the rapidity of its pace, it has been
called a gondola, but I was a judge of gondolas, and I thought that there
was no family likeness between the coach and the Venetian boats which,
with two hearty rowers, glide along so swiftly and smoothly. The effect
of the movement was that I had to throw up whatever was on my stomach. My
travelling companions thought me bad company, but they did not say so. I
was in France and among Frenchmen, who know what politeness is. They only
remarked that very likely I had eaten too much at my supper, and a
Parisian abbe, in order to excuse me, observed that my stomach was weak.
A discussion arose.

"Gentlemen," I said, in my vexation, and rather angrily, "you are all
wrong, for my stomach is excellent, and I have not had any supper."

Thereupon an elderly man told me, with a voice full of sweetness, that I
ought not to say that the gentlemen were wrong, though I might say that
they were not right, thus imitating Cicero, who, instead of declaring to
the Romans that Catilina and the other conspirators were dead, only said
that they had lived.

"Is it not the same thing?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, one way of speaking is polite, the other is
not." And after treating me to a long dissection on politeness, he
concluded by saying, with a smile, "I suppose you are an Italian?"

"Yes, I am, but would you oblige me by telling me how you have found it
out?"

"Oh! I guessed it from the attention with which you have listened to my
long prattle."

Everybody laughed, and, I, much pleased with his eccentricity, began to
coax him. He was the tutor of a young boy of twelve or thirteen years who
was seated near him. I made him give me during the journey lessons in
French politeness, and when we parted he took me apart in a friendly
manner, saying that he wished to make me a small present.

"What is it?"

"You must abandon, and, if I may say so, forget, the particle 'non',
which you use frequently at random. 'Non' is not a French word; instead
of that unpleasant monosyllable, say, 'Pardon'. 'Non' is equal to giving
the lie: never say it, or prepare yourself to give and to receive
sword-stabs every moment."

"I thank you, monsieur, your present is very precious, and I promise you
never to say non again."

During the first fortnight of my stay in Paris, it seemed to me that I
had become the most faulty man alive, for I never ceased begging pardon.
I even thought, one evening at the theatre, that I should have a quarrel
for having begged somebody's pardon in the wrong place. A young fop,
coming to the pit, trod on my foot, and I hastened to say,

"Your pardon, sir."

"Sir, pardon me yourself."

"No, yourself."

"Yourself!"

"Well, sir, let us pardon and embrace one another!" The embrace put a
stop to the discussion.

One day during the journey, having fallen asleep from fatigue in the
inconvenient gondola, someone pushed my arm.

"Ah, sir! look at that mansion!"

"I see it; what of it?"

"Ah! I pray you, do you not find it...."

"I find nothing particular; and you?"

"Nothing wonderful, if it were not situated at a distance of forty
leagues from Paris. But here! Ah! would my 'badauds' of Parisians believe
that such a beautiful mansion can be found forty leagues distant from the
metropolis? How ignorant a man is when he has never travelled!"

"You are quite right."

That man was a Parisian and a 'badaud' to the backbone, like a Gaul in
the days of Caesar.

But if the Parisians are lounging about from morning till night, enjoying
everything around them, a foreigner like myself ought to have been a
greater 'badaud' than they! The difference between us was that, being
accustomed to see things such as they are, I was astonished at seeing
them often covered with a mask which changed their nature, while their
surprise often arose from their suspecting what the mask concealed.

What delighted me, on my arrival in Paris, was the magnificent road made
by Louis XV., the cleanliness of the hotels, the excellent fare they
give, the quickness of the service, the excellent beds, the modest
appearance of the attendant, who generally is the most accomplished girl
of the house, and whose decency, modest manners, and neatness, inspire
the most shameless libertine with respect. Where is the Italian who is
pleased with the effrontery and the insolence of the hotel-waiters in
Italy? In my days, people did not know in France what it was to
overcharge; it was truly the home of foreigners. True, they had the
unpleasantness of often witnessing acts of odious despotism, 'lettres de
cachet', etc.; it was the despotism of a king. Since that time the French
have the despotism of the people. Is it less obnoxious?

We dined at Fontainebleau, a name derived from Fontaine-belle-eau; and
when we were only two leagues from Paris we saw a berlin advancing
towards us. As it came near the diligence, my friend Baletti called out
to the postillions to stop. In the berlin was his mother, who offered me
the welcome given to an expected friend. His mother was the celebrated
actress Silvia, and when I had been introduced to her she said to me;

"I hope, sir, that my son's friend will accept a share of our family
supper this evening."

I accepted gratefully, sat down again in the gondola, Baletti got into
the berlin with his mother, and we continued our journey.

On reaching Paris, I found a servant of Silvia's waiting for me with a
coach; he accompanied me to my lodging to leave my luggage, and we
repaired to Baletti's house, which was only fifty yards distant from my
dwelling.

Baletti presented me to his father, who was known under the name of
Mario. Silvia and Mario were the stage names assumed by M. and Madame
Baletti, and at that time it was the custom in France to call the Italian
actors by the names they had on the stage. 'Bon jour', Monsieur Arlequin;
'bon jour', Monsieur Pantalon: such was the manner in which the French
used to address the actors who personified those characters on the stage.

CHAPTER VI

My Apprenticeship in Paris--Portraits--Oddities--All Sorts of Things

To celebrate the arrival of her son, Silvia gave a splendid supper to
which she had invited all her relatives, and it was a good opportunity
for me to make their acquaintance. Baletti's father, who had just
recovered from a long illness, was not with us, but we had his father's
sister, who was older than Mario. She was known, under her theatrical
name of Flaminia, in the literary world by several translations, but I
had a great wish to make her acquaintance less on that account than in
consequence of the story, known throughout Italy, of the stay that three
literary men of great fame had made in Paris. Those three literati were
the Marquis Maffei, the Abbe Conti, and Pierre Jacques Martelli, who
became enemies, according to public rumour, owing to the belief
entertained by each of them that he possessed the favours of the actress,
and, being men of learning, they fought with the pen. Martelli composed a
satire against Maffei, in which he designated him by the anagram of
Femia.

I had been announced to Flaminia as a candidate for literary fame, and
she thought she honoured me by addressing me at all, but she was wrong,
for she displeased me greatly by her face, her manners, her style, even
by the sound of her voice. Without saying it positively, she made me
understand that, being herself an illustrious member of the republic of
letters, she was well aware that she was speaking to an insect. She
seemed as if she wanted to dictate to everybody around her, and she very
likely thought that she had the right to do so at the age of sixty,
particularly towards a young novice only twenty-five years old, who had
not yet contributed anything to the literary treasury. In order to please
her, I spoke to her of the Abbe Conti, and I had occasion to quote two
lines of that profound writer. Madam corrected me with a patronizing air
for my pronunciation of the word 'scevra', which means divided, saying
that it ought to be pronounced 'sceura', and she added that I ought to be
very glad to have learned so much on the first day of my arrival in
Paris, telling me that it would be an important day in my life.

"Madam, I came here to learn and not to unlearn. You will kindly allow me
to tell you that the pronunciation of that word 'scevra' with a v, and
not 'sceura' with a u, because it is a contraction of 'sceverra'."

"It remains to be seen which of us is wrong."

"You, madam, according to Ariosto, who makes 'scevra' rhyme with
'persevra', and the rhyme would be false with 'sceura', which is not an
Italian word."

She would have kept up the discussion, but her husband, a man eighty
years of age, told her that she was wrong. She held her tongue, but from
that time she told everybody that I was an impostor.

Her husband, Louis Riccoboni, better known as Lelio, was the same who had
brought the Italian company to Paris in 1716, and placed it at the
service of the regent: he was a man of great merit. He had been very
handsome, and justly enjoyed the esteem of the public, in consequence not
only of his talent but also of the purity of his life.

During supper my principal occupation was to study Silvia, who then
enjoyed the greatest reputation, and I judged her to be even above it.
She was then about fifty years old, her figure was elegant, her air
noble, her manners graceful and easy; she was affable, witty, kind to
everybody, simple and unpretending. Her face was an enigma, for it
inspired everyone with the warmest sympathy, and yet if you examined it
attentively there was not one beautiful feature; she could not be called
handsome, but no one could have thought her ugly. Yet she was not one of
those women who are neither handsome nor ugly, for she possessed a
certain something which struck one at first sight and captivated the
interest. Then what was she?

Beautiful, certainly, but owing to charms unknown to all those who, not
being attracted towards her by an irresistible feeling which compelled
them to love her, had not the courage to study her, or the constancy to
obtain a thorough knowledge of her.

Silvia was the adoration of France, and her talent was the real support
of all the comedies which the greatest authors wrote for her, especially
of, the plays of Marivaux, for without her his comedies would never have
gone to posterity. Never was an actress found who could replace her, and
to find one it would be necessary that she should unite in herself all
the perfections which Silvia possessed for the difficult profession of
the stage: action, voice, intelligence, wit, countenance, manners, and a
deep knowledge of the human heart. In Silvia every quality was from
nature, and the art which gave the last touch of perfection to her
qualities was never seen.

To the qualities which I have just mentioned, Silvia added another which
surrounded her with a brilliant halo, and the absence of which would not
have prevented her from being the shining star of the stage: she led a
virtuous life. She had been anxious to have friends, but she had
dismissed all lovers, refusing to avail herself of a privilege which she
could easily have enjoyed, but which would have rendered her contemptible
in her own estimation. The irreproachable conduct obtained for her a
reputation of respectability which, at her age, would have been held as
ridiculous and even insulting by any other woman belonging to the same
profession, and many ladies of the highest rank honoured her with her
friendship more even than with their patronage. Never did the capricious
audience of a Parisian pit dare to hiss Silvia, not even in her
performance of characters which the public disliked, and it was the
general opinion that she was in every way above her profession.

Silvia did not think that her good conduct was a merit, for she knew that
she was virtuous only because her self-love compelled her to be so, and
she never exhibited any pride or assumed any superiority towards her
theatrical sisters, although, satisfied to shine by their talent or their
beauty, they cared little about rendering themselves conspicuous by their
virtue. Silvia loved them all, and they all loved her; she always was the
first to praise, openly and with good faith, the talent of her rivals;
but she lost nothing by it, because, being their superior in talent and
enjoying a spotless reputation, her rivals could not rise above her.

Nature deprived that charming woman of ten year of life; she became
consumptive at the age of sixty, ten years after I had made her
acquaintance. The climate of Paris often proves fatal to our Italian
actresses. Two years before her death I saw her perform the character of
Marianne in the comedy of Marivaux, and in spite of her age and declining
health the illusion was complete. She died in my presence, holding her
daughter in her arms, and she was giving her the advice of a tender
mother five minutes before she breathed her last. She was honourably
buried in the church of St. Sauveur, without the slightest opposition
from the venerable priest, who, far from sharing the anti-christain
intolerancy of the clergy in general, said that her profession as an
actress had not hindered her from being a good Christian, and that the
earth was the common mother of all human beings, as Jesus Christ had been
the Saviour of all mankind.

You will forgive me, dear reader, if I have made you attend the funeral
of Silvia ten years before her death; believe me I have no intention of
performing a miracle; you may console yourself with the idea that I shall
spare you that unpleasant task when poor Silvia dies.

Her only daughter, the object of her adoration, was seated next to her at
the supper-table. She was then only nine years old, and being entirely
taken up by her mother I paid no attention to her; my interest in her was
to come.

After the supper, which was protracted to a late hour, I repaired to the
house of Madame Quinson, my landlady, where I found myself very
comfortable. When I woke in the morning, the said Madame Quinson came to
my room to tell me that a servant was outside and wished to offer me his
services. I asked her to send him in, and I saw a man of very small
stature; that did not please me, and I told him so.

"My small stature, your honour, will be a guarantee that I shall never
borrow your clothes to go to some amorous rendezvous."

"Your name?"

"Any name you please."

"What do you mean? I want the name by which you are known."

"I have none. Every master I serve calls me according to his fancy, and I
have served more than fifty in my life. You may call me what you like."

"But you must have a family name."

"I never had any family. I had a name, I believe, in my young days, but I
have forgotten it since I have been in service. My name has changed with
every new master."

"Well! I shall call you Esprit."

"You do me a great honour."

"Here, go and get me change for a Louis."

"I have it, sir."

"I see you are rich."

"At your service, sir."

"Where can I enquire about you?"

"At the agency for servants. Madame Quinson, besides, can answer your
enquiries. Everybody in Paris knows me."

"That is enough. I shall give you thirty sous a day; you must find your
own clothes: you will sleep where you like, and you must be here at seven
o'clock every morning."

Baletti called on me and entreated me to take my meals every day at his
house. After his visit I told Esprit to take me to the Palais-Royal, and
I left him at the gates. I felt the greatest curiosity about that
renowned garden, and at first I examined everything. I see a rather fine
garden, walks lined with big trees, fountains, high houses all round the
garden, a great many men and women walking about, benches here and there
forming shops for the sale of newspapers, perfumes, tooth-picks, and
other trifles. I see a quantity of chairs for hire at the rate of one
sou, men reading the newspaper under the shade of the trees, girls and
men breakfasting either alone or in company, waiters who were rapidly
going up and down a narrow staircase hidden under the foliage.

I sit down at a small table: a waiter comes immediately to enquire my
wishes. I ask for some chocolate made with water; he brings me some, but
very bad, although served in a splendid silver-gilt cup. I tell him to
give me some coffee, if it is good.

"Excellent, I made it myself yesterday."

"Yesterday! I do not want it."

"The milk is very good."

"Milk! I never drink any. Make me a cup of fresh coffee without milk."

"Without milk! Well, sir, we never make coffee but in the afternoon.
Would you like a good bavaroise, or a decanter of orgeat?"

"Yes, give me the orgeat."

I find that beverage delicious, and make up my mind to have it daily for
my breakfast. I enquire from the waiter whether there is any news; he
answers that the dauphine has been delivered of a prince. An abbe, seated
at a table close by, says to him,--

"You are mad, she has given birth to a princess."

A third man comes forward and exclaims,--

"I have just returned from Versailles, and the dauphine has not been
delivered either of a prince or of a princess."

Then, turning towards me, he says that I look like a foreigner, and when
I say that I am an Italian he begins to speak to me of the court, of the
city, of the theatres, and at last he offers to accompany me everywhere.
I thank him and take my leave. The abbe rises at the same time, walks
with me, and tells me the names of all the women we meet in the garden.

A young man comes up to him, they embrace one another, and the abbe
presents him to me as a learned Italian scholar. I address him in
Italian, and he answers very wittily, but his way of speaking makes me
smile, and I tell him why. He expressed himself exactly in the style of
Boccacio. My remark pleases him, but I soon prove to him that it is not
the right way to speak, however perfect may have been the language of
that ancient writer. In less than a quarter of an hour we are excellent
friends, for we find that our tastes are the same.

My new friend was a poet as I was; he was an admirer of Italian
literature, while I admired the French.

We exchanged addresses, and promise to see one another very often.

I see a crowd in one corner of the garden, everybody standing still and
looking up. I enquire from my friend whether there is anything wonderful
going on.

"These persons are watching the meridian; everyone holds his watch in his
hand in order to regulate it exactly at noon."

"Is there not a meridian everywhere?"

"Yes, but the meridian of the Palais-Royal is the most exact."

I laugh heartily.

"Why do you laugh?"

"Because it is impossible for all meridians not to be the same. That is
true 'badauderie'."

My friend looks at me for a moment, then he laughs likewise, and supplies
me with ample food to ridicule the worthy Parisians. We leave the
Palais-Royal through the main gate, and I observe another crowd of people
before a shop, on the sign-board of which I read "At the Sign of the
Civet Cat."

"What is the matter here?"

"Now, indeed, you are going to laugh. All these honest persons are
waiting their turn to get their snuff-boxes filled."

"Is there no other dealer in snuff?"

"It is sold everywhere, but for the last three weeks nobody will use any
snuff but that sold at the 'Civet Cat.'"

"Is it better than anywhere else?"

"Perhaps it is not as good, but since it has been brought into fashion by
the Duchesse de Chartres, nobody will have any other."

"But how did she manage to render it so fashionable?"

"Simply by stopping her carriage two or three times before the shop to
have her snuff-box filled, and by saying aloud to the young girl who
handed back the box that her snuff was the very best in Paris. The
'badauds', who never fail to congregate near the carriage of princes, no
matter if they have seen them a hundred times, or if they know them to be
as ugly as monkeys, repeated the words of the duchess everywhere, and
that was enough to send here all the snuff-takers of the capital in a
hurry. This woman will make a fortune, for she sells at least one hundred
crowns' worth of snuff every day."

"Very likely the duchess has no idea of the good she has done."

"Quite the reverse, for it was a cunning artifice on her part. The
duchess, feeling interested in the newly-married young woman, and wishing
to serve her in a delicate manner, thought of that expedient which has
met with complete success. You cannot imagine how kind Parisians are. You
are now in the only country in the world where wit can make a fortune by
selling either a genuine or a false article: in the first case, it
receives the welcome of intelligent and talented people, and in the
second, fools are always ready to reward it, for silliness is truly a
characteristic of the people here, and, however wonderful it may appear,
silliness is the daughter of wit. Therefore it is not a paradox to say
that the French would be wiser if they were less witty.

"The gods worshipped here although no altars are raised for them--are
Novelty and Fashion. Let a man run, and everybody will run after him. The
crowd will not stop, unless the man is proved to be mad; but to prove it
is indeed a difficult task, because we have a crowd of men who, mad from
their birth, are still considered wise.

"The snuff of the 'Civet Cat' is but one example of the facility with
which the crowd can be attracted to one particular spot. The king was one
day hunting, and found himself at the Neuilly Bridge; being thirsty, he
wanted a glass of ratafia. He stopped at the door of a drinking-booth,
and by the most lucky chance the poor keeper of the place happened to
have a bottle of that liquor. The king, after he had drunk a small glass,
fancied a second one, and said that he had never tasted such delicious
ratafia in his life. That was enough to give the ratafia of the good man
of Neuilly the reputation of being the best in Europe: the king had said
so. The consequence was that the most brilliant society frequented the
tavern of the delighted publican, who is now a very wealthy man, and has
built on the very spot a splendid house on which can be read the
following rather comic motto: 'Ex liquidis solidum,' which certainly came
out of the head of one of the forty immortals. Which gods must the worthy
tavern-keeper worship? Silliness, frivolity, and mirth."

"It seems to me," I replied, "that such approval, such ratification of
the opinion expressed by the king, the princes of the blood, etc., is
rather a proof of the affection felt for them by the nation, for the
French carry that affection to such an extent that they believe them
infallible."

"It is certain that everything here causes foreigners to believe that the
French people adore the king, but all thinking men here know well enough
that there is more show than reality in that adoration, and the court has
no confidence in it. When the king comes to Paris, everybody calls out,
'Vive le Roi!' because some idle fellow begins, or because some policeman
has given the signal from the midst of the crowd, but it is really a cry
which has no importance, a cry given out of cheerfulness, sometimes out
of fear, and which the king himself does not accept as gospel. He does
not feel comfortable in Paris, and he prefers being in Versailles,
surrounded by twenty-five thousand men who protect him against the fury
of that same people of Paris, who, if ever they became wiser, might very
well one day call out, 'Death to the King!' instead of, 'Long life to the
King!' Louis XIV. was well aware of it, and several councillors of the
upper chamber lost their lives for having advised the assembling of the
states-general in order to find some remedy for the misfortunes of the
country. France never had any love for any kings, with the exception of
St. Louis, of Louis XII, and of the great and good Henry IV.; and even in
the last case the love of the nation was not sufficient to defend the
king against the dagger of the Jesuits, an accursed race, the enemy of
nations as well as of kings. The present king, who is weak and entirely
led by his ministers, said candidly at the time he was just recovering
from illness, 'I am surprised at the rejoicings of the people in
consequence of my health being restored, for I cannot imagine why they
should love me so dearly.' Many kings might repeat the same words, at
least if love is to be measured according to the amount of good actually
done. That candid remark of Louis XV. has been highly praised, but some
philosopher of the court ought to have informed him that he was so much
loved because he had been surnamed 'le bien aime'."

"Surname or nickname; but are there any philosophers at the court of
France?"

"No, for philosophers and courtiers are as widely different as light and
darkness; but there are some men of intelligence who champ the bit from
motives of ambition and interest."

As we were thus conversing, M. Patu (such was the name of my new
acquaintance) escorted me as far as the door of Silvia's house; he
congratulated me upon being one of her friends, and we parted company.

I found the amiable actress in good company. She introduced me to all her
guests, and gave me some particulars respecting every one of them. The
name of Crebillon struck my ear.

"What, sir!" I said to him, "am I fortunate enough to see you? For eight
years you have charmed me, for eight years I have longed to know you.
Listen, I beg 'of you."

I then recited the finest passage of his 'Zenobie et Rhadamiste', which I
had translated into blank verse. Silvia was delighted to see the pleasure
enjoyed by Crebillon in hearing, at the age of eighty, his own lines in a
language which he knew thoroughly and loved as much as his own. He
himself recited the same passage in French, and politely pointed out the
parts in which he thought that I had improved on the original. I thanked
him, but I was not deceived by his compliment.

We sat down to supper, and, being asked what I had already seen in Paris,
I related everything I had done, omitting only my conversation with Patu.
After I had spoken for a long time, Crebillon, who had evidently observed
better than anyone else the road I had chosen in order to learn the good
as well as the bad qualities by his countrymen, said to me,

"For the first day, sir, I think that what you have done gives great
hopes of you, and without any doubt you will make rapid progress. You
tell your story well, and you speak French in such a way as to be
perfectly understood; yet all you say is only Italian dressed in French.
That is a novelty which causes you to be listened to with interest, and
which captivates the attention of your audience; I must even add that
your Franco-Italian language is just the thing to enlist in your favour
the sympathy of those who listen to you, because it is singular, new, and
because you are in a country where everybody worships those two
divinities--novelty and singularity. Nevertheless, you must begin
to-morrow and apply yourself in good earnest, in order to acquire a
thorough knowledge of our language, for the same persons who warmly
applaud you now, will, in two or three months, laugh at you."

"I believe it, sir, and that is what I fear; therefore the principal
object of my visit here is to devote myself entirely to the study of the
French language. But, sir, how shall I find a teacher? I am a very
unpleasant pupil, always asking questions, curious, troublesome,
insatiable, and even supposing that I could meet with the teacher I
require, I am afraid I am not rich enough to pay him."

"For fifty years, sir, I have been looking out for a pupil such as you
have just described yourself, and I would willingly pay you myself if you
would come to my house and receive my lessons. I reside in the Marais,
Rue de Douze Portes. I have the best Italian poets. I will make you
translate them into French, and you need not be afraid of my finding you
insatiable."

I accepted with joy. I did not know how to express my gratitude, but both
his offer and the few words of my answer bore the stamp of truth and
frankness.

Crebillon was a giant; he was six feet high, and three inches taller than
I. He had a good appetite, could tell a good story without laughing, was
celebrated for his witty repartees and his sociable manners, but he spent
his life at home, seldom going out, and seeing hardly anyone because he
always had a pipe in his mouth and was surrounded by at least twenty
cats, with which he would amuse himself all day. He had an old
housekeeper, a cook, and a man-servant. His housekeeper had the
management of everything; she never allowed him to be in need of
anything, and she gave no account of his money, which she kept
altogether, because he never asked her to render any accounts. The
expression of Crebillon's face was that of the lion's or of the cat's,
which is the same thing. He was one of the royal censors, and he told me
that it was an amusement for him. His housekeeper was in the habit of
reading him the works brought for his examination, and she would stop
reading when she came to a passage which, in her opinion, deserved his
censure, but sometimes they were of a different opinion, and then their
discussions were truly amusing. I once heard the housekeeper send away an
author with these words:

"Come again next week; we have had no time to examine your manuscript."

During a whole year I paid M. Crebillon 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 remark 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 can find out in
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 I gave it to Crebillon, asking 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. Imagine 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 a heavenly voice, he has been deprived of that 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 Crebillon 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 Crebillon had known well for
fifteen years, and he related several very curious anecdotes which were
generally unknown. Amongst other things he assured me that the Siamese
ambassadors were cheats paid by Madame de Maintenon. He told us likewise
that he had never finished his tragedy of Cromwell, because the king had
told him one day not to wear out his pen on a scoundrel.

Crebillon mentioned likewise his tragedy of Catilina, and he told me
that, in his opinion, it was the most deficient of his works, but that he
never would 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 her
acquaintances with Jason.

He praised the talent of Voltaire very highly, but he accused him of
having stolen from him, Crebillon, 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 with it such a number of light anecdotes
and tales for the sake of rendering it more attractive. According to
Crebillon, 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 Crebillon at Silvia's, 'Cenie', a
play by Madame de Graffigny, 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 the buttons all along my coat
shewed at once that I was a foreigner, for the fashion was not the same
in Paris. I was gaping in the air and listlessly looking round, when a
gentleman, splendidly dressed, and three times stouter than I, came up
and enquired 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."

"Ah! I beg your pardon a thousand times!"

But my 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 cultivate so well,
and which insures 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 out
to me, "Sir! Sir!"

"I could not go away without being guilty of impoliteness, and I went 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 him 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 Silvia'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 Silvia."

It would have been uncourteous on my part to resist any longer. He left
the box and returned almost immediately with my friend Baletti, 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 M. de Beauchamp,
Receiver-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 society, high play, good cheer, and open
cheerfulness. The supper was not over till one o'clock in the morning.
Madame's private carriage drove me to my lodgings. That house offered me
a kind welcome during the whole of my stay in Paris, and I must add that
my new friends proved very useful to me. Some persons assert that
foreigners find the first fortnight 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 panegyric
on the Marechal de Saxe. We went out together and took a walk in the
Tuileries, where he introduced me to Madame du Boccage, who made a good
jest in speaking of the Marechal de Saxe.

"It is singular," she said, "that we cannot have a 'De profundis' for a
man who makes us sing the 'Te Deum' so often."

As we left the Tuileries, Patu took me to the house of a celebrated
actress of the opera, Mademoiselle Le Fel, the favourite of all Paris,
and 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
have all a different cast of countenance."

"No wonder! The eldest is the son of the Duke d'Anneci, the second of
Count d'Egmont, and the youngest is the offspring of Maison-Rouge, who
has just married the Romainville."

"Ah! pray excuse me, I thought you were the mother of the three."

"You were not mistaken, I am their mother."

As she said these words she looked at Patu, and both burst into hearty
laughter which did not make me blush, but which shewed me my blunder.

I was a novice in Paris, and I had not been accustomed to see women
encroach upon the privilege which men alone generally enjoy. Yet
mademoiselle Le Fel 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 every-day 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
Mademoiselle Le Fel would, I have no doubt, have laughed at anyone
telling her that I had some wit, after the stupid mistake 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, and 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 down-cast 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 that you were married, madam."

She looked at me with evident surprise for a moment, then she turned
towards her friend, and both began to laugh immoderately. Ashamed, but
for them more than myself, I left the house with a firm resolution never
again to take virtue for granted in 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 Patu, 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 panegyrics, funeral orations, eulogies, dedications, etc. It was by
surprise that I wrested that secret from Patu.

Being at his house one morning, I observed on his table several sheets of
paper covered with dode-casyllabic 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 express the same ideas as the panegyric of the Marechal de Saxe,
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 your 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 to be forgiven. Prose intermixed with occasional
verses is worse than prosaic poetry."

"Is it true that the verses which, like parasites, steal into a funeral
oration, must be sadly out of place?"

"Certainly. Take the example of Tacitus, who begins his history of Rome
by these words: 'Urbem Roman a principio reges habuere'. They form a very
poor Latin hexameter, which the great historian certainly never made on
purpose, and which he never remarked when he revised his work, for there
is 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 purposely
inserted such verses into their prose, believing that they would make it
more euphonious. Hence the tawdriness which is justly alleged against
much Italian literature. But I suppose you are the only writer who takes
so much 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. Ask Crebillon, the Abby de Voisenon, La Harpe,
anyone you like, and they will all tell you the same thing. Voltaire was
the first to have recourse to that art in the small pieces in which his
prose is truly charming. For instance, the epistle to Madame du Chatelet,
which is magnificent. Read it, and if you find a single hemistich in it I
will confess myself in the wrong."

I felt some curiosity about the matter, and I asked Crebillon about it.
He told me that Fatu was right, but he added that he had never practised
that art himself.

Patu wished very much to take me to the opera in order to witness the
effect produced upon me by the performance, which must truly astonish an
Italian. 'Les Fetes Venitiennes' was the title of the opera which was in
vogue just then--a title full of interest for me. We went for our forty
sous to the pit, in which, although the audience was standing, the
company was excellent, for the opera was the favourite amusement of 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 St. Mark's Square in Venice, taken from the Island 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, at first amused me on account of its novelty, but it soon wearied
me. The melopaeia fatigued me by its constant and tedious monotony, and
by the shrieks given out of season. That melopaeia, of the French
replaces--at least they think so--the Greek melapaeia and our recitative
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 masked in St. Mark's Square.
The stage was animated by gallants, procuresses, 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 Councillors appear on the stage, all dressed in the most ludicrous
style, and dancing a 'pas d'ensemble'. 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 front and reaching to his
heels. Patu said, almost reverently, "It is the inimitable Dupres." 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, stretched them gracefully
backward and forward, moved his feet with precision and lightness, took a
few small steps, made some battements and pirouettes, 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 cause of all those bravos.

"We applaud the grace of Dupres and, the divine harmony of his movements.
He is 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. Dupres always does the same thing, and everyday
we fancy we see it for the first time. Such is 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, Dupres 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 round 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 Dupres was
truly very graceful in all his movements. Immediately after him we had a
female dancer, who jumped about like a fury, cutting to right and left,
but heavily, yet she was applauded 'con furore'.

"This is," said Patu, "the famous Camargo. I congratulate you, my friend,
upon having arrived in Paris in time to see her, for she has accomplished
her twelfth lustre."

I confessed 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, and,
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 Camargo," I said, with an air of repentance, "does not please me. I
like Dupres much better."

An elderly admirer of Camargo, seated on my left, told me that in her
youth she could perform the 'saut de basque' and even the 'gargouillade',
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 that she does not wear
silk tights?"

"Oh! that is one of those things which can easily be 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 baton of the leader, but he disgusted me with the
movements of his sceptre right and left, as if he thought that 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
'Le Misanthrope', 'L'Avare', 'Tartufe', 'Le Joueur', 'Le Glorieux', and
many other comedies; and, no matter how often I saw them. I always
fancied it was the first time. I arrived in Paris to admire Sarrazin, La
Dangeville, La Dumesnil, La Gaussin, La Clairon, Preville, and several
actresses who, having retired from the stage, were living upon their
pension, and delighting their circle of friends. I made, amongst others,
the acquaintance of the celebrated Le Vasseur. I visited them all with
pleasure, and they related to me several very curious anecdotes. They
were generally most kindly disposed in every way.

One evening, being in the box of Le Vasseur, 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 Le Vasseur, "She is the daughter of the actor
who plays the confidant. 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 daughter 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 truly charming, madam; but how could 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 honour, but another time."

"Whenever you like."

CHAPTER VII

My Blunders in the French Language, My Success, My Numerous
Acquaintances--Louis XV.--My Brother Arrives in Paris.

All the Italian actors in Paris insisted upon entertaining me, in order
to shew me their magnificence, and they all did it in a sumptuous style.
Carlin Bertinazzi who played Harlequin, and was a great favourite of the
Parisians, reminded me that he had already seen me thirteen 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 la Caillerie,
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 was
present, said to me;

"They are M. Carlin'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 M. Carlin 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 Carlin by a warm
friendship, and such things were then very common in Paris amongst people
of a certain class. Two noblemen, Boufflers and Luxembourg, had made a
friendly exchange of each other's wives, and each had children by the
other's wife. The young Boufflers were called Luxembourg, and the young
Luxembourg were called Boufflers. The descendants of those tiercelets 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 Pantaloon, the
father of Coraline 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, Coraline, was kept by the Prince of Monaco, son of the Duke
of Valentinois, who was still alive; and Camille was enamoured of the
Count of Melfort, the favourite of the Duchess of Chartres, who had just
become Duchess of Orleans by the death of her father-in-law.

Coraline 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 belong 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 and withdraw, but afterwards I was asked to remain, for as a
general thing princes find a tete-a-tete with their mistresses rather
wearisome. Therefore we used to sup together, and they both listened,
while it was my province to eat, and to relate stories.

I bethought myself of paying my court to the prince, and he received my
advances very well. One morning, as I called on Coraline, he said to me,

"Ah! I am very glad to see you, for I have promised the Duchess of Rufe
to present you to her, and we can go to her immediately."

Again a duchess! My star is 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 relining 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 arms 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 disgusting Messaline; "are
you such a novice?"

"No, madam; but...."

"But what?"

"I have...."

"Oh, the villain!" she exclaimed, loosing her hold; "what was I going to
expose myself to!"

I availed myself of the opportunity, snatched my hat, and took to my
heels, afraid lest the door-keeper should stop me.

I took a coach and drove to Coraline's, 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 mind with which I had invented
an impediment, but she did not give me an opportunity of proving to her
that I had deceived the duchess.

Yet I was not without hope, and suspected that she did not think me
sufficiently enamoured of her.

Three or four days afterwards, however, as we had supper together and
alone, I told her so many things, and I asked her so clearly to make me
happy or else to dismiss me, that she gave me an appointment for the next
day.

"To-morrow," 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 a vis-a-vis, with servants in a foreign livery came tip
to us, and the person who was in it called out, "Stop! Stop!"

The person was the Chevalier de Wurtemburg, who, without deigning 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."

And saying those words she got out, took her seat in the vis-a-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 Patu's house, to whom I related my adventure,
almost foaming with rage. But very far from pitying me or sharing my
anger, Patu, 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 Coraline the very first time you
are with her."

"I would not have her, for now I despise her heartily."

"Your contempt ought to have come sooner. But, now that is too late to
discuss the matter, I offer you, as a compensation, a dinner at the
Hotel du Roule."

"Most decidedly yes; it is an excellent idea. Let us go."

The Hotel du Roule 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 and beautiful groves. Her cook was an artist, and her
wine-cellar 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 by far superior to
the warren.

We took a coach, and Patu said to the driver,

"To Chaillot."

"I understand, your honour."

After a drive of half an hour, we stopped before a gate on which could be
read, "Hotel du Roule."

The gate was closed. A porter, sporting long mustachioes, 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 enquired 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, and dressed alike 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 a voluptuousness which a novice might
have mistaken for love, and took us to the garden until dinner would be
ready. That garden was very large and artistically arranged to minister
to the pleasures of love. Madame Paris said to us,

"Go, gentlemen, enjoy the fresh air with perfect security in every way;
my house is the temple of peace and of good health."

The girl I had chosen was something like Coraline, 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 had given us new
strength, when our single-eyed hostess came, watch in hand, to announce
that time was up. Pleasure at the "Hotel du Roule" was measured by the
hour.

I whispered to Patu, and, after a few philosophical considerations,
addressing himself to madame la gouvernante, 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, madam."

"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 Paris approve our plan?"

"I could not have devised a better one, gentlemen; it is a masterpiece."

When we were in the room, and 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
Aspasia, and I thanked my stars that I had passed her by the first two
times, as I had now the certainty of possessing her for fourteen hours.
That beauty's name was Saint Hilaire; and under that name she became
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 longer
with me. She then began to laugh, and shewed 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 the supper
Patu told me in Italian that he was on the point of taking her at the
very moment I chose her, and 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 du Roule, and all for her; she was
very proud of my constancy.

Those visits very naturally cooled my ardour for Coraline. A singer from
Venice, called Guadani, 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 caught 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 Valentinois, the prince left her altogether and
married Mlle. de Brignole, 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
Monreal.

Madame la 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 at 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. Passorelli, the only painter of battles
known in France, was dead, and I thought that Francois might succeed and
make a fortune. I therefore wrote to M. Grimani and to my brother; I
persuaded them both, but Francois did not come to Paris till the
beginning of the following year.

Louis XV., who was passionately fond of hunting, was in the habit of
spending six weeks every year at the Chateau of 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 the 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 theatres were so numerous that
the Opera, the French and Italian Comedies, remained open in Paris.

Baletti's father, who had recovered his health, was to go to
Fontainebleau with Silvia 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 M. de Morosini, 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 Lulli. 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 Le Maur gave a scream so shrill and so unexpected that I
thought she had gone mad. I burst into a genuine laugh, not supposing
that any one could possibly find fault with it. But a knight of the Order
of the Holy Ghost, who was near the Marquise 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."

"Venice, madam, is not down there, but up there."

That answer was found more singular than the first, and everybody in the
box held a consultation in order to ascertain 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 of my room did not
close well. That gentleman, who was unknown to me was the Marechal de
Richelieu. I told him he was mistaken, for my windows were well
'calfoutrees'. Everyone in the box burst into a loud laugh, and I felt
mortified, for I knew my mistake; I ought to have said 'calfeutrees'. But
these 'eus' and 'ous' cause dire misery to all foreigners.

Half an hour afterwards M. de Richelieu asked me which of the two
actresses pleased me 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 premiere chose que j'ecarte, ce sont les jambes'."

That word said quite by chance, and the double meaning 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 M. de Morosini, who told me that the duke would be
happy to receive me. My 'jeu de mots' became celebrated, and the marshal
honoured 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 alone 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 enquired who she was.

"She is," answered one of my neighbours, "Madame de Brionne, 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."

"Ah, 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 gentleman happened to be near me,
curiosity impelled me to enquire where they were coming from, and where
they were going in such haste.

"They are coming from the apartment of the queen who is going to dine,
and the reason why they walk 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, leaning with
one arm on the shoulder of M. d'Argenson. "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 skilful
painter succeed in rendering justice to the expression of that beautiful
head, when the king turned it on 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,
and a table large enough for twelve persons, but laid out only for one.

"For whom is this table?"

"For the queen. Her majesty is now 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 semicircle 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
her plate. One of the dishes being to her taste, she desired to be helped
to it a second time, and she then cast her eyes round the circle of
courtiers, probably in order to see if among them there was anyone to
whom she owed an account of her daintiness. She found that person, I
suppose, for she said,

"Monsieur de Lowendal!"

At that name, a fine-looking man came forward with respectful
inclination, and said,

"Your majesty?"

"I believe this is a fricassee of chickens."

"I am of the same opinion, madam."

After this answer, given in the most serious tone, the queen continued
eating, and the marshal retreated backward 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
honour of being her guest.

I was delighted to have seen the famous captain who had conquered
Bergen-op-Zoom, but I regretted that such a man should be compelled to
give an answer about a fricassee of chickens in the serious tone of a
judge pronouncing a sentence of death.

I made good use of this anecdote at the excellent dinner Silvia gave to
the elite of polite and agreeable society.

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 Mesdames de France, his daughters, I suddenly
perceived the Cavamacchia, whom I had left in Cesena under the name of
Madame Querini. If I was astonished to see her, she was as much so in
meeting me in such a place. The Marquis of Saint Simon, premier
'gentilhomme' of the Prince de Conde, escorted her.

"Madame Querini in Fontainebleau?"

"You here? It reminds me of Queen Elizabeth saying,

"'Pauper ubique facet.'"

"An excellent comparison, madam."

"I am only joking, my dear friend; I am here to see the king, who does
not know me; but to-morrow the ambassador will present me to his
majesty."

She placed herself in the line within a yard or two from me, beside the
door by which the king was to come. His majesty entered the gallery with
M. de Richelieu, and looked at the so-called Madame Querini. But she very
likely did not take his fancy, for, continuing to walk on, he addressed
to the marshal these remarkable words, which Juliette must have
overheard,

"We have handsomer women here."

In the afternoon I called upon the Venetian ambassador. I found him in
numerous company, with Madame Querini 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 manoeuvring I made up my mind not to disoblige
her, and even to render her all the good offices I could; it was a noble
revenge.

As she was speaking of M. Querini, the ambassador congratulated her upon
her marriage with him, saying that he was glad M. Querini 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 Juliette.

"I know it for a fact," I said, in my turn; "for, two years ago, the lady
was introduced as Madame Querini and with the title of excellency by
General Spada to all the nobility in Cesena, where I was at that time."

"I have no doubt of it," answered the ambassador, fixing his eyes upon
me, "for Querini has himself written to me on the 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 into his private room,
and he asked me what people generally thought of the marriage in Venice.

"Nobody knows it, and it is even rumoured that the heir of the house of
Querini is on the point of marrying a daughter of the Grimani family; but
I shall certainly send the news to Venice."

"What news?"

"That Juliette is truly Madame Querini, 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 M. de
Richelieu after looking at Juliette.

"Then I can guess," remarked the ambassador, "why Juliette does not wish
to be presented to the king."

I was informed some time afterwards that M. 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. Juliette left Fontainebleau the next morning.

In the first part of my Memoirs I have spoken of Juliette'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 ambassador's, and she told me with a
laugh that she had only been in jest when she called herself Madame
Querini, and that I should oblige her if for the future I would call her
by her real name of Countess Preati. 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 M. Ranchi,
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 Canes, ambassador of Maria Theresa,
had some inclination for her, as well as the Count of Zinzendorf. The
person who arranged these transient and short-lived intrigues was a
certain Guasco, an abbe not over-favoured with the gifts of Plutus. He
was particularly ugly, and had to purchase small favours 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 Preati family of Verona denied all
knowledge of her, as a matter of course, and M. 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 'el dorado' 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
the Uccelli, who 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 Crebillon; yet my
style, which was full of Italianisms, often expressed the very reverse of
what I meant to say. But generally my 'quid pro quos' 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
procured 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 won more than they did.

Madame Preodot, 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 had taken medicine the night previous. Foolishly
translating an Italian idiom, I asked her, with an air of deep interest,
whether she had well 'decharge'?

"Sir, what a question! You are unbearable."

I repeated my question; she broke out angrily again.

"Never utter that dreadful word."

"You are 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 'cafe' and two 'Savoyards'."

"Dear me! What a ferocious breakfast! Pray, explain yourself."

"I say that I have drunk a cafe and eaten two Savoyards soaked in it, and
that is what I do every morning."

"You are stupid, my good friend. A cafe is the establishment in which
coffee is sold, and you ought to say that you have drunk 'use tasse de
cafe'"

"Good indeed! Do you drink the cup? In Italy we say a 'caffs', and we are
not foolish enough to suppose that it means the coffee-house."

"He will have the best of it! And the 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 is not my fault if you imagined that I had 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 have never been in
Savoy."

Her husband came in at that 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
fourteen years of age, reserved, modest, and 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 in cantata di vi Vader in bona salute'."

"I thank you, mademoiselle; but to translate 'I am enchanted', you must
say 'ho pacer', and for to see you, you must say 'di vedervi'."

"I thought, sir, that the 'vi' was to be placed before."

"No, mademoiselle, we always put it behind."

Monsieur and Madame Preodot 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 sulkily, 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 her honour has to do with her health?"

I meet in the Bois de Boulogne a young man riding a horse which he cannot
master, and at last he is thrown. I stop the horse, run to the assistance
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 N----,
when her nephew, a brilliant butterfly, came in, and she introduced me to
him, mentioning my name and 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 in 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 that the likeness was striking.

A young marquise, who had the reputation of being a great wit, said to me
in the most serious tone,

"It is truly an antique?"

"The stone, madam, undoubtedly."

Everyone laughed except the thoughtless young beauty, who did not take
any notice of it. Towards the end of the dinner, someone spoke of the
rhinoceros, which was then shewn for twenty-four sous at the St.
Germain's 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 marquise was
walking in front of us. At the end of the alley where we had been told
that 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 and very
masculine form, and the beautiful marquise 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 laughing; and the marquise, 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 a 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,
Coraline's sister, whom I amused by making love to her. A young
councillor, who objected to my occupying Camille's attention, being a
very conceited fellow, attacked me upon some remark I made respecting an
Italian play, and took the liberty of shewing 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 fop, 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 Place de Greve has seen the
hanging of seven men, among whom there were five Italians. An
extraordinary circumstance."

"Nothing extraordinary in that," I answered; "honest men generally
contrive to be hung far away from their native country; and as a proof of
it, sixty Frenchmen have been hung in the course of last year between
Naples, Rome, and Venice. Five times twelve are sixty; so you see that it
is only a fair exchange."

The laughter was all on my side, and the fine councillor went away 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 M. de Marigni, whom I was delighted to know for the sake of my
brother whose arrival in Paris I was expecting every day. M. de Marigni
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 had seen him, then only a child, eight years before in
Naples, and that I was under 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 M. de Marigni, who
received him with great distinction, and encouraged him by assuring him
of his protection. He immediately set to work with great diligence.

M. de Morosini had been recalled, and M. de Mocenigo had succeeded him as
ambassador of the Republic. M. de Bragadin had recommended me to him, and
he tendered a friendly welcome both to me and to my brother, in whose
favour he felt interested as a Venetian, and as a young artist seeking to