The youngest daughter of my landlady2, Mdlle. Quinson, a young girl between fifteen and sixteen years of age, was in the habit of often coming to my room without being called. It was not long before I discovered that she was in love with me, and I should have thought myself ridiculous if I had been cruel to a young brunette who was piquant3, lively, amiable4, and had a most delightful5 voice.
During the first four or five months nothing but childish trifles took place between us; but one night, coming home very late and finding her fast asleep on my bed, I did not see the necessity of waking her up, and undressing myself I lay down beside her. . . . She left me at daybreak.
Mimi had not been gone three hours when a milliner came with a charming young girl, to invite herself and her friend to breakfast; I thought the young girl well worth a breakfast, but I was tired and wanted rest, and I begged them both to withdraw. Soon after they had left me, Madame Quinson came with her daughter to make my bed. I put my dressing-gown on, and began to write.
“Ah! the nasty hussies!” exclaims the mother.
“What is the matter, madam?”
“The riddle6 is clear enough, sir; these sheets are spoiled.”
“I am very sorry, my dear madam, but change them, and the evil will be remedied at once.”
She went out of the room, threatening and grumbling7,
“Let them come again, and see if I don’t take care of them!”
Mimi remained alone with me, and I addressed her some reproaches for her imprudence. But she laughed, and answered that Love had sent those women on purpose to protect Innocence9! After that, Mimi was no longer under any restraint, she would come and share my bed whenever she had a fancy to do so, unless I sent her back to her own room, and in the morning she always left me in good time. But at the end of four months my beauty informed me that our secret would soon be discovered.
“I am very sorry,” I said to her, “but I cannot help it.”
“We ought to think of something.”
“Well, do so.”
“What can I think of? Well, come what will; the best thing I can do is not to think of it.”
Towards the sixth month she had become so large, that her mother, no longer doubting the truth, got into a violent passion, and by dint10 of blows compelled her to name the father. Mimi said I was the guilty swain, and perhaps it was not an untruth.
With that great discovery Madame Quinson burst into my room in high dudgeon. She threw herself on a chair, and when she had recovered her breath she loaded me with insulting words, and ended by telling me that I must marry her daughter. At this intimation, understanding her object and wishing to cut the matter short, I told her that I was already married in Italy.
“Then why did you come here and get my daughter with child?”
“I can assure you that I did not mean to do so. Besides, how do you know that I am the father of the child?”
“Mimi says so, and she is certain of it.”
“I congratulate her; but I warn you, madam, that I am ready to swear that I have not any certainty about it.”
“What then?”
“Then nothing. If she is pregnant, she will be confined.”
She went downstairs, uttering curses and threats: the next day I was summoned before the commissary of the district. I obeyed the summons, and found Madame Quinson fully12 equipped for the battle. The commissary, after the preliminary questions usual in all legal cases, asked me whether I admitted myself guilty towards the girl Quinson of the injury of which the mother, there present personally, complained.
“Monsieur le Commissaire, I beg of you to write word by word the answer which I am going to give you.”
“Very well.”
“I have caused no injury whatever to Mimi, the plaintiff’s daughter, and I refer you to the girl herself, who has always had as much friendship for me as I have had for her.”
“But she declares that she is pregnant from your doings.”
“That may be, but it is not certain.”
“She says it is certain, and she swears that she has never known any other man.”
“If it is so, she is unfortunate; for in such a question a man cannot trust any woman but his own wife.”
“What did you give her in order to seduce13 her?”
“Nothing; for very far from having seduced14 her, she has seduced me, and we agreed perfectly15 in one moment; a pretty woman does not find it very hard to seduce me.”
“Was she a virgin16?”
“I never felt any curiosity about it either before or after; therefore, sir, I do not know.”
“Her mother claims reparation, and the law is against you.”
“I can give no reparation to the mother; and as for the law I will obey it when it has been explained to me, and when I am convinced that I have been guilty against it.”
“You are already convinced. Do you imagine that a man who gets an honest girl with child in a house of which he is an inmate17 does not transgress18 the laws of society?”
“I admit that to be the case when the mother is deceived; but when that same mother sends her daughter to the room of a young man, are we not right in supposing that she is disposed to accept peacefully all the accidents which may result from such conduct?”
“She sent her daughter to your room only to wait on you.”
“And she has waited on me as I have waited on her if she sends her to my room this evening, and if it is agreeable to Mimi, I will certainly serve her as well as I can; but I will have nothing to do with her against her will or out of my room, the rent of which I have always paid punctually.”
“You may say what you like, but you must pay the fine.”
“I will say what I believe to be just, and I will pay nothing; for there can be no fine where there is no law transgressed19. If I am sentenced to pay I shall appeal even to the last jurisdiction20 and until I obtain justice, for believe me, sir, I know that I am not such an awkward and cowardly fellow as to refuse my caresses21 to a pretty woman who pleases me, and comes to provoke them in my own room, especially when I feel myself certain of the mother’s agreement.”
I signed the interrogatory after I had read it carefully, and went away. The next day the lieutenant22 of police sent for me, and after he had heard me, as well as the mother and the daughter, he acquitted23 me and condemned24 Madame Quinson in costs. But I could not after all resist the tears of Mimi, and her entreaties26 for me to defray the expenses of her confinement27. She was delivered of a boy, who was sent to the Hotel Dieu to be brought up at the nation’s expense. Soon afterwards Mimi ran away from her mother’s house, and she appeared on the stage at St. Laurent’s Fair. Being unknown, she had no difficulty in finding a lover who took her for a maiden28. I found her very pretty on the stage.
“I did not know,” I said to her, “that you were a musician.”
“I am a musician about as much as all my companions, not one of whom knows a note of music. The girls at the opera are not much more clever, and in spite of that, with a good voice and some taste, one can sing delightfully29.”
I advised her to invite Patu to supper, and he was charmed with her. Some time afterwards, however, she came to a bad end, and disappeared.
The Italian comedians30 obtained at that time permission to perform parodies31 of operas and of tragedies. I made the acquaintance at that theatre of the celebrated32 Chantilly, who had been the mistress of the Marechal de Saxe, and was called Favart because the poet of that name had married her. She sang in the parody33 of ‘Thetis et Pelee’, by M. de Fontelle, the part of Tonton, amidst deafening34 applause. Her grace and talent won the love of a man of the greatest merit, the Abbe de Voisenon, with whom I was as intimate as with Crebillon. All the plays performed at the Italian Comedy, under the name of Madame Favart, were written by the abbe, who became member of the Academie after my departure from Paris. I cultivated an acquaintance the value of which I could appreciate, and he honoured me with his friendship. It was at my suggestions that the Abbe de Voisenon conceived the idea of composing oratorios35 in poetry; they were sung for the first time at the Tuileries, when the theatres were closed in consequence of some religious festival. That amiable abbe, who had written several comedies in secret, had very poor health and a very small body; he was all wit and gracefulness36, famous for his shrewd repartees which, although very cutting, never offended anyone. It was impossible for him to have any enemies, for his criticism only grazed the skin and never wounded deeply. One day, as he was returning from Versailles, I asked him the news of the court.
“The king is yawning,” he answered, “because he must come to the parliament to-morrow to hold a bed of justice.”
“Why is it called a bed of justice?”
“I do not know, unless it is because justice is asleep during the proceedings39.”
I afterwards met in Prague the living portrait of that eminent40 writer in Count Francois Hardig, now plenipotentiary of the emperor at the court of Saxony.
The Abbe de Voisenon introduced me to Fontenelle, who was then ninety-three years of age. A fine wit, an amiable and learned man, celebrated for his quick repartees, Fontenelle could not pay a compliment without throwing kindness and wit into it. I told him that I had come from Italy on purpose to see him.
“Confess, sir,” he said to me, “that you have kept me waiting a very long time.”
This repartee38 was obliging and critical at the same time, and pointed41 out in a delicate and witty42 manner the untruth of my compliment. He made me a present of his works, and asked me if I liked the French plays; I told him that I had seen ‘Thetis et Pelee’ at the opera. That play was his own composition, and when I had praised it, he told me that it was a ‘tete pelee’.
“I was at the Theatre Francais last night,” I said, “and saw Athalie.”
“It is the masterpiece of Racine; Voltaire, has been wrong in accusing me of having criticized that tragedy, and in attributing to me an epigram, the author of which has never been known, and which ends with two very poor lines:
“Pour avoir fait pis qu’Esther,
Comment diable as-to pu faire”
I have been told that M. de Fontenelle had been the tender friend of Madame du Tencin, that M. d’Alembert was the offspring of their intimacy43, and that Le Rond had only been his foster-father. I knew d’Alembert at Madame de Graffigny’s. That great philosopher had the talent of never appearing to be a learned man when he was in the company of amiable persons who had no pretension44 to learning or the sciences, and he always seemed to endow with intelligence those who conversed45 with him.
When I went to Paris for the second time, after my escape from The Leads of Venice, I was delighted at the idea of seeing again the amiable, venerable Fontenelle, but he died a fortnight after my arrival, at the beginning of the year 1757.
When I paid my third visit to Paris with the intention of ending my days in that capital, I reckoned upon the friendship of M. d’Alembert, but he died, like Fontenelle, a fortnight after my arrival, towards the end of 1783. Now I feel that I have seen Paris and France for the last time. The popular effervescence has disgusted me, and I am too old to hope to see the end of it.
Count de Looz, Polish ambassador at the French court, invited me in 1751 to translate into Italian a French opera susceptible46 of great transformations47, and of having a grand ballet annexed48 to the subject of the opera itself. I chose ‘Zoroastre’, by M. de Cahusac. I had to adapt words to the music of the choruses, always a difficult task. The music remained very beautiful, of course, but my Italian poetry was very poor. In spite of that the generous sovereign sent me a splendid gold snuff-box, and I thus contrived49 at the same time to please my mother very highly.
It was about that time that Mdlle. Vesian arrived in Paris with her brother. She was quite young, well educated, beautiful, most amiable, and a novice50; her brother accompanied her. Her father, formerly51 an officer in the French army, had died at Parma, his native city. Left an orphan52 without any means of support, she followed the advice given by her friends; she sold the furniture left by her father, with the intention of going to Versailles to obtain from the justice and from the generosity53 of the king a small pension to enable her to live. As she got out of the diligence, she took a coach, and desired to be taken to some hotel close by the Italian Theatre; by the greatest chance she was brought to the Hotel de Bourgogne, where I was then staying myself.
In the morning I was told that there were two young Italians, brother and sister, who did not appear very wealthy, in the next room to mine. Italians, young, poor and newly arrived, my curiosity was excited. I went to the door of their room, I knocked, and a young man came to open it in his shirt.
“I beg you to excuse me, sir,” he said to me, “if I receive you in such a state.”
“I have to ask your pardon myself. I only come to offer you my services, as a countryman and as a neighbour.”
A mattress54 on the floor told me where the young man had slept; a bed standing11 in a recess55 and hid by curtains made me guess where the sister was. I begged of her to excuse me if I had presented myself without enquiring56 whether she was up.
She answered without seeing me, that the journey having greatly tried her she had slept a little later than usual, but that she would get up immediately if I would excuse her for a short time.
“I am going to my room, mademoiselle, and I will come back when you send for me; my room is next door to your own.”
A quarter of an hour after, instead of being sent for, I saw a young and beautiful person enter my room; she made a modest bow, saying that she had come herself to return my visit, and that her brother would follow her immediately.
I thanked her for her visit, begged her to be seated, and I expressed all the interest I felt for her. Her gratitude57 shewed itself more by the tone of her voice than by her words, and her confidence being already captivated she told me artlessly, but not without some dignity, her short history or rather her situation, and she concluded by these words:
“I must in the course of the day find a less expensive lodging58, for I only possess six francs.”
I asked her whether she had any letters of recommendation, and she drew out of her pocket a parcel of papers containing seven or eight testimonials of good conduct and honesty, and a passport.
“Is this all you have, my dear countrywoman?”
“Yes. I intend to call with my brother upon the secretary of war, and I hope he will take pity on me.”
“You do not know anybody here?”
“Not one person, sir; you are the first man in France to whom I have exposed my situation.”
“I am a countryman of yours, and you are recommended to me by your position as well as by your age; I wish to be your adviser59, if you will permit me.”
“Ah, sir! how grateful I would be!”
“Do not mention it. Give me your papers, I will see what is to be done with them. Do not relate your history to anyone, and do not say one word about your position. You had better remain at this hotel. Here are two Louis which I will lend you until you are in a position to return them to me.”
She accepted, expressing her heart-felt gratitude.
Mademoiselle Vesian was an interesting brunette of sixteen. She had a good knowledge of French and Italian, graceful37 manners, and a dignity which endowed her with a very noble appearance. She informed me of her affairs without meanness, yet without that timidity which seems to arise from a fear of the person who listens being disposed to take advantage of the distressing60 position confided61 to his honour. She seemed neither humiliated62 nor bold; she had hope, and she did not boast of her courage. Her virtue63 was by no means ostentatious, but there was in her an air of modesty64 which would certainly have put a restraint upon anyone disposed to fail in respect towards her. I felt the effect of it myself, for in spite of her beautiful eyes, her fine figure, of the freshness of her complexion65, her transparent66 skin, her negligee — in one word, all that can tempt67 a man and which filled me with burning desires, I did not for one instant lose control over myself; she had inspired me with a feeling of respect which helped me to master my senses, and I promised myself not only to attempt nothing against her virtue, but also not to be the first man to make her deviate68 from the right path. I even thought it better to postpone69 to another interview a little speech on that subject, the result of which might be to make me follow a different course.
“You are now in a city,” I said to her, “in which your destiny must unfold itself, and in which all the fine qualities which nature has so bountifully bestowed70 upon you, and which may ultimately cause your fortune, may likewise cause your ruin; for here, by dear countrywoman, wealthy men despise all libertine71 women except those who have offered them the sacrifice of their virtue. If you are virtuous72, and are determined73 upon remaining so, prepare yourself to bear a great deal of misery74; if you feel yourself sufficiently75 above what is called prejudice, if, in one word, you feel disposed to consent to everything, in order to secure a comfortable position, be very careful not to make a mistake. Distrust altogether the sweet words which every passionate76 man will address to you for the sake of obtaining your favours, for, his passion once satisfied, his ardour will cool down, and you will find yourself deceived. Be wary77 of your adorers; they will give you abundance of counterfeit78 coin, but do not trust them far. As far as I am concerned, I feel certain that I shall never injure you, and I hope to be of some use to you. To reassure79 you entirely80 on my account, I will treat you as if you were my sister, for I am too young to play the part of your father, and I would not tell you all this if I did not think you a very charming person.”
Her brother joined us as we were talking together. He was a good- looking young man of eighteen, well made, but without any style about him; he spoke81 little, and his expression was devoid82 of individuality. We breakfasted together, and having asked him as we were at table for what profession he felt an inclination83, he answered that he was disposed to do anything to earn an honourable84 living.
“Have you any peculiar85 talent?”
“I write pretty well.”
“That is something. When you go out, mistrust everybody; do not enter any cafe, and never speak to anyone in the streets. Eat your meals in your room with your sister, and tell the landlady to give you a small closet to sleep in. Write something in French to-day, let me have it to-morrow morning, and we will see what can be done. As for you, mademoiselle, my books are at your disposal, I have your papers; to-morrow I may have some news to tell you; we shall not see each other again to-day, for I generally come home very late.” She took a few books, made a modest reverence86, and told me with a charming voice that she had every confidence in me.
Feeling disposed to be useful to her, wherever I went during that day I spoke of nothing but of her and of her affairs; and everywhere men and women told me that if she was pretty she could not fail, but that at all events it would be right for her to take all necessary steps. I received a promise that the brother should be employed in some office. I thought that the best plan would be to find some influential87 lady who would consent to present Mdlle. Vesian to M. d’Argenson, and I knew that in the mean time I could support her. I begged Silvia to mention the matter to Madame de Montconseil, who had very great influence with the secretary of war. She promised to do so, but she wished to be acquainted with the young girl.
I returned to the hotel towards eleven o’clock, and seeing that there was a light still burning in the room of Mdlle. Vesian I knocked at her door. She opened it, and told me that she had sat up in the hope of seeing me. I gave her an account of what I had done. I found her disposed to undertake all that was necessary, and most grateful for my assistance. She spoke of her position with an air of noble indifference88 which she assumed in order to restrain her tears; she succeeded in keeping them back, but the moisture in her eyes proved all the efforts she was making to prevent them from falling. We had talked for two hours, and going from one subject to another I learned that she had never loved, and that she was therefore worthy89 of a lover who would reward her in a proper manner for the sacrifice of her virtue. It would have been absurd to think that marriage was to be the reward of that sacrifice; the young girl had not yet made what is called a false step, but she had none of the prudish90 feelings of those girls who say that they would not take such a step for all the gold in the universe, and usually give way before the slightest attack; all my young friend wanted was to dispose of herself in a proper and advantageous91 manner.
I could not help sighing as I listened to her very sensible remarks, considering the position in which she was placed by an adverse92 destiny. Her sincerity93 was charming to me; I was burning with desire. Lucie of Pasean came back to my memory; I recollected95 how deeply I had repented96 the injury I had done in neglecting a sweet flower, which another man, and a less worthy one, had hastened to pluck; I felt myself near a lamb which would perhaps become the prey97 of some greedy wolf; and she, with her noble feelings, her careful education, and a candour which an impure98 breath would perhaps destroy for ever, was surely not destined99 for a lot of shame. I regretted I was not rich enough to make her fortune, and to save her honour and her virtue. I felt that I could neither make her mine in an illegitimate way nor be her guardian100 angel, and that by becoming her protector I should do her more harm than good; in one word, instead of helping101 her out of the unfortunate position in which she was, I should, perhaps, only contribute to her entire ruin. During that time I had her near me, speaking to her in a sentimental102 way, and not uttering one single word of love; but I kissed her hand and her arms too often without coming to a resolution, without beginning a thing which would have too rapidly come to an end, and which would have compelled me to keep her for myself; in that case, there would have been no longer any hope of a fortune for her, and for me no means of getting rid of her. I have loved women even to madness, but I have always loved liberty better; and whenever I have been in danger of losing it fate has come to my rescue.
I had remained about four hours with Mdlle. Vesian, consumed by the most intense desires, and I had had strength enough to conquer them. She could not attribute my reserve to a feeling of modesty, and not knowing why I did not shew more boldness she must have supposed that I was either ill or impotent. I left her, after inviting103 her to dinner for the next day.
We had a pleasant dinner, and her brother having gone out for a walk after our meal we looked together out of the window from which we could see all the carriages going to the Italian Comedy. I asked her whether she would like to go; she answered me with a smile of delight, and we started at once.
I placed her in the amphitheatre where I left her, telling her that we would meet at the hotel at eleven o’clock. I would not remain with her, in order to avoid the questions which would have been addressed to me, for the simpler her toilet was the more interesting she looked.
After I had left the theatre, I went to sup at Silvia’s and returned to the hotel. I was surprised at the sight of an elegant carriage; I enquired104 to whom it belonged, and I was told that it was the carriage of a young nobleman who had supped with Mdlle. Vesian. She was getting on.
The first thing next morning, as I was putting my head out of the window, I saw a hackney coach stop at the door of the hotel; a young man, well dressed in a morning costume, came out of it, and a minute after I heard him enter the room of Mdlle. Vesian. Courage! I had made up my mind; I affected105 a feeling of complete indifference in order to deceive myself.
I dressed myself to go out, and while I was at my toilet Vesian came in and told me that he did not like to go into his sister’s room because the gentleman who had supped with her had just arrived.
“That’s a matter of course,” I said.
“He is rich and very handsome. He wishes to take us himself to Versailles, and promises to procure106 some employment for me.”
“I congratulate you. Who is he?”
“I do not know.”
I placed in an envelope the papers she had entrusted107 to me, and I handed them to him to return to his sister. I then went out. When I came home towards three o’clock, the landlady gave me a letter which had been left for me by Mdlle. Vesian, who had left the hotel.
I went to my room, opened the letter, and read the following lines:
“I return the money you have lent me with my best thanks. The Count de Narbonne feels interested in me, and wishes to assist me and my brother. I shall inform you of everything, of the house in which he wishes me to go and live, where he promises to supply me all I want. Your friendship is very dear to me, and I entreat25 you not to forget me. My brother remains108 at the hotel, and my room belongs to me for the month. I have paid everything.”
“Here is,” said I to myself, “a second Lucie de Pasean, and I am a second time the dupe of my foolish delicacy109, for I feel certain that the count will not make her happy. But I wash my hands of it all.”
I went to the Theatre Francais in the evening, and enquired about Narbonne. The first person I spoke to told me,
“He is the son of a wealthy man, but a great libertine and up to his neck in debts.”
Nice references, indeed! For a week I went to all the theatres and public places in the hope of making the acquaintance of the count, but I could not succeed, and I was beginning to forget the adventure when one morning, towards eight o’clock Vesian calling on me, told me that his sister was in her room and wished to speak to me. I followed him immediately. I found her looking unhappy and with eyes red from crying. She told her brother to go out for a walk, and when he had gone she spoke to me thus:
“M. de Narbonne, whom I thought an honest man, because I wanted him to be such, came to sit by me where you had left me at the theatre; he told me that my face had interested him, and he asked me who I was. I told him what I had told you. You had promised to think of me, but Narbonne told me that he did not want your assistance, as he could act by himself. I believed him, and I have been the dupe of my confidence in him; he has deceived me; he is a villain110.”
The tears were choking her: I went to the window so as to let her cry without restraint: a few minutes after, I came back and I sat down by her.
“Tell me all, my dear Vesian, unburden your heart freely, and do not think yourself guilty towards me; in reality I have been wrong more than you. Your heart would not now be a prey to sorrow if I had not been so imprudent as to leave you alone at the theatre.”
“Alas, sir! do not say so; ought I to reproach you because you thought me so virtuous? Well, in a few words, the monster promised to shew me every care, every attention, on condition of my giving him an undeniable, proof of my affection and confidence — namely, to take a lodging without my brother in the house of a woman whom he represented as respectable. He insisted upon my brother not living with me, saying that evil-minded persons might suppose him to be my lover. I allowed myself to be persuaded. Unhappy creature! How could I give way without consulting you? He told me that the respectable woman to whom he would take me would accompany me to Versailles, and that he would send my brother there so that we should be both presented to the war secretary. After our first supper he told me that he would come and fetch me in a hackney coach the next morning. He presented me with two louis and a gold watch, and I thought I could accept those presents from a young nobleman who shewed so much interest in me. The woman to whom he introduced me did not seem to me as respectable as he had represented her to be. I have passed one week with her without his doing anything to benefit my position. He would come, go out, return as he pleased, telling me every day that it would be the morrow, and when the morrow came there was always some impediment. At last, at seven o’clock this morning, the woman told me that the count was obliged to go into the country, that a hackney coach would bring me back to his hotel, and that he would come and see me on his return. Then, affecting an air of sadness, she told me that I must give her back the watch because the count had forgotten to pay the watchmaker for it. I handed it to her immediately without saying a word, and wrapping the little I possessed111 in my handkerchief I came back here, where I arrived half an hour since.”
“Do you hope to see him on his return from the country?”
“To see him again! Oh, Lord! why have I ever seen him?”
She was crying bitterly, and I must confess that no young girl ever moved me so deeply as she did by the expression of her grief. Pity replaced in my heart the tenderness I had felt for her a week before. The infamous112 proceedings of Narbonne disgusted me to that extent that, if I had known where to find him alone, I would immediately have compelled him to give me reparation. Of course, I took good care not to ask the poor girl to give me a detailed113 account of her stay in the house of Narbonne’s respectable procurers; I could guess even more than I wanted to know, and to insist upon that recital114 would have humiliated Mdlle. Vesian. I could see all the infamy115 of the count in the taking back of the watch which belonged to her as a gift, and which the unhappy girl had earned but too well. I did all I could to dry her tears, and she begged me to be a father to her, assuring me that she would never again do anything to render her unworthy of my friendship, and that she would always be guided by my advice.
“Well, my dear young friend, what you must do now is not only to forget the unworthy count and his criminal conduct towards you, but also the fault of which you have been guilty. What is done cannot be undone116, and the past is beyond remedy; but compose yourself, and recall the air of cheerfulness which shone on your countenance117 a week ago. Then I could read on your face honesty, candour, good faith, and the noble assurance which arouses sentiment in those who can appreciate its charm. You must let all those feelings shine again on your features; for they alone can interest honest people, and you require the general sympathy more than ever. My friendship is of little importance to you, but you may rely upon it all the more because I fancy that you have now a claim upon it which you had not a week ago: Be quite certain, I beg, that I will not abandon you until your position is properly settled. I cannot at present tell you more; but be sure that I will think of you.”
“Ah, my friend! if you promise to think of me, I ask for no more. Oh! unhappy creature that I am; there is not a soul in the world who thinks of me.”
She was: so deeply moved that she fainted away. I came to her assistance without calling anyone, and when she had recovered her consciousness and some calm, I told her a hundred stories, true or purely118 imaginary, of the knavish119 tricks played in Paris by men who think of nothing but of deceiving young girls. I told her a few amusing instances in order to make her more cheerful, and at last I told her that she ought to be thankful for what had happened to her with Narbonne, because that misfortune would give her prudence8 for the future.
During that long tete-a-tete I had no difficulty in abstaining120 from bestowing121 any caresses upon her; I did not even take her hand, for what I felt for her was a tender pity; and I was very happy when at the end of two hours I saw her calm and determined upon bearing misfortune like a heroine.
She suddenly rose from her seat, and, looking at me with an air of modest trustfulness, she said to me,
“Are, you particularly engaged in any way to-day?”
“No, my dear:”
“Well, then, be good enough to take me somewhere out of Paris; to some place where I can breathe the fresh air freely; I shall then recover that appearance which you think I must have to interest in my favour those who will see me; and if I can enjoy a quiet sleep throughout the next night I feel I shall be happy again.”
“I am grateful to you for your confidence in me. We will go out as soon as I am dressed. Your brother will return in the mean time.”
“Oh, never mind my brother!”
“His presence is, on the contrary, of great importance. Recollect94, my dear Vesian, you must make Narbonne ashamed of his own conduct. You must consider that if he should happen to hear that, on the very day he abandoned you, you went into the country alone with me, he would triumph, and would certainly say that he has only treated you as you deserved. But if you go with your brother and me your countryman, you give no occasion for slander122.”
“I blush not to have made that remark myself. We will wait for my brother’s return.”
He was not long in coming back, and having sent for a coach we were on the point of going, when Baletti called on me. I introduced him to the young lady, and invited him to join our party. He accepted, and we started. As my only purpose was to amuse Mdlle. Vesian, I told the coachman to drive us to the Gros Caillou, where we made an excellent impromptu123 dinner, the cheerfulness of the guests making up for the deficiencies of the servants.
Vesian, feeling his head rather heavy, went out for a walk after dinner, and I remained alone with his sister and my friend Baletti. I observed with pleasure that Baletti thought her an agreeable girl, and it gave me the idea of asking him to teach her dancing. I informed him of her position, of the reason which had brought her to Paris, of the little hope there was of her obtaining a pension from the king, and of the necessity there was for her to do something to earn a living. Baletti answered that he would be happy to do anything, and when he had examined the figure and the general conformation of the young girl he said to her,
“I will get Lani to take you for the ballet at the opera.”
“Then,” I said, “you must begin your lessons tomorrow. Mdlle. Vesian stops at my hotel.”
The young girl, full of wonder at my plan, began to laugh heartily124, and said,
“But can an opera dancer be extemporized125 like a minister of state? I can dance the minuet, and my ear is good enough to enable me to go through a quadrille; but with the exception of that I cannot dance one step.”
“Most of the ballet girls,” said Baletti, “know no more than you do.”
“And how much must I ask from M. Lani? I do not think I can expect much.”
“Nothing. The ballet girls are not paid.”
“Then where is the advantage for me?” she said, with a sigh; “how shall I live?”
“Do not think of that. Such as you are, you will soon find ten wealthy noblemen who will dispute amongst themselves for the honour of making up for the absence of salary. You have only to make a good choice, and I am certain that it will not be long before we see you covered with diamonds.”
“Now I understand you. You suppose some great lord will keep me?”
“Precisely; and that will be much better than a pension of four hundred francs, which you would, perhaps, not obtain without making the same sacrifice.”
Very much surprised, she looked at me to ascertain126 whether I was serious or only jesting.
Baletti having left us, I told her it was truly the best thing she could do, unless she preferred the sad position of waiting-maid to some grand lady.
“I would not be the ‘femme de chambre’ even of the queen.”
“And ‘figurante’ at the opera?”
“Much rather.”
“You are smiling?”
“Yes, for it is enough to make me laugh. I the mistress of a rich nobleman, who will cover me with diamonds! Well, I mean to choose the oldest.”
“Quite right, my dear; only do not make him jealous.”
“I promise you to be faithful to him. But shall he find a situation for my brother? However, until I am at the opera, until I have met with my elderly lover, who will give me the means to support myself?”
“I, my dear girl, my friend Baletti, and all my friends, without other interest than the pleasure of serving you, but with the hope that you will live quietly, and that we shall contribute to your happiness. Are you satisfied?”
“Quite so; I have promised myself to be guided entirely by your advice, and I entreat you to remain always my best friend.”
We returned to Paris at night, I left Mdlle. Vesian at the hotel, and accompanied Baletti to his mother’s. At supper-time, my friend begged Silvia to speak to M. Lani in favour of our ‘protegee’, Silvia said that it was a much better plan than to solicit127 a miserable128 pension which, perhaps, would not be granted. Then we talked of a project which was then spoken of, namely to sell all the appointments of ballet girls and of chorus singers at the opera. There was even some idea of asking a high price for them, for it was argued that the higher the price the more the girls would be esteemed129. Such a project, in the midst of the scandalous habits and manners of the time, had a sort of apparent wisdom; for it would have ennobled in a way a class of women who with very few exceptions seem to glory in being contemptible130.
There were, at that time at the opera, several figurantes, singers and dancers, ugly rather than plain, without any talent, who, in spite of it all, lived in great comfort; for it is admitted that at the opera a girl must needs renounce131 all modesty or starve. But if a girl, newly arrived there, is clever enough to remain virtuous only for one month, her fortune is certainly made, because then the noblemen enjoying a reputation of wisdom and virtue are the only ones who seek to get hold of her. Those men are delighted to hear their names mentioned in connection with the newly-arrived beauty; they even go so far as to allow her a few frolics, provided she takes pride in what they give her, and provided her infidelities are not too public. Besides, it is the fashion never to go to sup with one’s mistress without giving her notice of the intended visit, and everyone must admit that it is a very wise custom.
I came back to the hotel towards eleven o’clock, and seeing that Mdlle. Vesian’s room was still open I went in. She was in bed.
“Let me get up,” she said, “for I want to speak to you.”
“Do not disturb yourself; we can talk all the same, and I think you much prettier as you are.”
“I am very glad of it.”
“What have you got to tell me?”
“Nothing, except to speak of the profession I am going to adopt. I am going to practice virtue in order to find a man who loves it only to destroy it.”
“Quite true; but almost everything is like that in this life. Man always refers everything to himself, and everyone is a tyrant132 in his own way. I am pleased to see you becoming a philosopher.”
“How can one become a philosopher?”
“By thinking.”
“Must one think a long while?”
“Throughout life.”
“Then it is never over?”
“Never; but one improves as much as possible, and obtains the sum of happiness which one is susceptible of enjoying.”
“And how can that happiness be felt?”
“By all the pleasure which the philosopher can procure when he is conscious of having obtained them by his own exertions133, and especially by getting rid of the many prejudices which make of the majority of men a troop of grown-up children.”
“What is pleasure? What is meant by prejudices?”
“Pleasure is the actual enjoyment134 of our senses; it is a complete satisfaction given to all our natural and sensual appetites; and, when our worn-out senses want repose135, either to have breathing time, or to recover strength, pleasure comes from the imagination, which finds enjoyment in thinking of the happiness afforded by rest. The philosopher is a person who refuses no pleasures which do not produce greater sorrows, and who knows how to create new ones.”
“And you say that it is done by getting rid of prejudices? Then tell me what prejudices are, and what must be done to get rid of them.”
“Your question, my dear girl, is not an easy one to answer, for moral philosophy does not know a more important one, or a more difficult one to decide; it is a lesson which lasts throughout life. I will tell you in a few words that we call prejudice every so-called duty for the existence of which we find no reason in nature.”
“Then nature must be the philosopher’s principal study?”
“Indeed it is; the most learned of philosophers is the one who commits the fewest errors.”
“What philosopher, in your opinion, has committed the smallest quantity of errors?”
“Socrates.”
“Yet he was in error sometimes?”
“Yes, in metaphysics.”
“Oh! never mind that, for I think he could very well manage without that study.”
“You are mistaken; morals are only the metaphysics of physics; nature is everything, and I give you leave to consider as a madman whoever tells you that he has made a new discovery in metaphysics. But if I went on, my dear, I might appear rather obscure to you. Proceed slowly, think; let your maxims136 be the consequence of just reasoning, and keep your happiness in view; in the end you must be happy.”
“I prefer the lesson you have just taught me to the one which M. Baletti will give me to-morrow; for I have an idea that it will weary me, and now I am much interested.”
“How do you know that you are interested?”
“Because I wish you not to leave me.”
“Truly, my dear Vesian, never has a philosopher described sympathy better than you have just done. How happy I feel! How is it that I wish to prove it by kissing you?”
“No doubt because, to be happy, the soul must agree with the senses.”
“Indeed, my divine Vesian? Your intelligence is charming.”
“It is your work, dear friend; and I am so grateful to you that I share your desires.”
“What is there to prevent us from satisfying such natural desires? Let us embrace one another tenderly.”
What a lesson in philosophy! It seemed to us such a sweet one, our happiness was so complete, that at daybreak we were still kissing one another, and it was only when we parted in the morning that we discovered that the door of the room had remained open all night.
Baletti gave her a few lessons, and she was received at the opera; but she did not remain there more than two or three months, regulating her conduct carefully according to the precepts137 I had laid out for her. She never received Narbonne again, and at last accepted a nobleman who proved himself very different from all others, for the first thing he did was to make her give up the stage, although it was not a thing according to the fashion of those days. I do not recollect his name exactly; it was Count of Tressan or Trean. She behaved in a respectable way, and remained with him until his death. No one speaks of her now, although she is living in very easy circumstances; but she is fifty-six, and in Paris a woman of that age is no longer considered as being among the living.
After she left the Hotel de Bourgogne, I never spoke to her. Whenever I met her covered with jewels and diamonds, our souls saluted138 each other with joy, but her happiness was too precious for me to make any attempt against it. Her brother found a situation, but I lost sight of him.
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1
broil
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| v.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂；n.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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3
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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4
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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6
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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7
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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8
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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9
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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10
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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12
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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13
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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14
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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17
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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18
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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19
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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20
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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21
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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22
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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23
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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24
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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27
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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29
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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30
comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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31
parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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34
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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35
oratorios
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| n.（以宗教为主题的）清唱剧，神剧( oratorio的名词复数 ) | |
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36
gracefulness
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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38
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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39
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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40
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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42
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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43
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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44
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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45
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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46
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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47
transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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48
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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49
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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50
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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51
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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52
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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53
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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54
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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55
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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56
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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57
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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58
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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59
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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60
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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61
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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62
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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63
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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64
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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66
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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67
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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68
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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69
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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70
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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72
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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73
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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74
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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75
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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76
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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77
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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78
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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79
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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80
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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81
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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82
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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83
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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84
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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85
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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86
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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87
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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106
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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107
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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115
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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116
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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knavish
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| adj.无赖（似）的，不正的；刁诈 | |
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abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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122
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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extemporized
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| v.即兴创作，即席演奏( extemporize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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132
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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133
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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134
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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135
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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136
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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137
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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