Benedict XIV

Benedict XIV–Excursion to Tivoli–Departure of Lucrezia–
The Marchioness G.–Barbara Dalacqua–My Misfortunes–
I Leave Rome

M. Dalacqua being very ill, his daughter Barbara gave me my lesson. When
it was over, she seized an opportunity of slipping a letter into my
pocket, and immediately disappeared, so that I had no chance of refusing.
The letter was addressed to me, and expressed feelings of the warmest
gratitude. She only desired me to inform her lover that her father had
spoken to her again, and that most likely he would engage a new servant
as soon as he had recovered from his illness, and she concluded her
letter by assuring me that she never would implicate me in this business.

Her father was compelled to keep his bed for a fortnight, and Barbara
continued to give me my lesson every day. I felt for her an interest
which, from me towards a young and pretty girl, was, indeed, quite a new
sentiment. It was a feeling of pity, and I was proud of being able to
help and comfort her. Her eyes never rested upon mine, her hand never met
mine, I never saw in her toilet the slightest wish to please me. She was
very pretty, and I knew she had a tender, loving nature; but nothing
interfered with the respect and the regard which I was bound in honour
and in good faith to feel towards her, and I was proud to remark that she
never thought me capable of taking advantage of her weakness or of her
position.

When the father had recovered he dismissed his servant and engaged
another. Barbara entreated me to inform her friend of the circumstance,
and likewise of her hope to gain the new servant to their interests, at
least sufficiently to secure the possibility of carrying on some
correspondence. I promised to do so, and as a mark of her gratitude she
took my hand to carry it to her lips, but quickly withdrawing it I tried
to kiss her; she turned her face away, blushing deeply. I was much
pleased with her modesty.

Barbara having succeeded in gaining the new servant over, I had nothing
more to do with the intrigue, and I was very glad of it, for I knew my
interference might have brought evil on my own head. Unfortunately, it
was already too late.

I seldom visited Don Gaspar; the study of the French language took up all
my mornings, and it was only in the morning that I could see him; but I
called every evening upon Father Georgi, and, although I went to him only
as one of his ‘proteges’, it gave me some reputation. I seldom spoke
before his guests, yet I never felt weary, for in his circle his friends
would criticise without slandering, discuss politics without
stubbornness, literature without passion, and I profited by all. After my
visit to the sagacious monk, I used to attend the assembly of the
cardinal, my master, as a matter of duty. Almost every evening, when she
happened to see me at her card-table, the beautiful marchioness would
address to me a few gracious words in French, and I always answered in
Italian, not caring to make her laugh before so many persons. My feelings
for her were of a singular kind. I must leave them to the analysis of the
reader. I thought that woman charming, yet I avoided her; it was not
because I was afraid of falling in love with her; I loved Lucrezia, and I
firmly believed that such an affection was a shield against any other
attachment, but it was because I feared that she might love me or have a
passing fancy for me. Was it self-conceit or modesty, vice or virtue?
Perhaps neither one nor the other.

One evening she desired the Abbe Gama to call me to her; she was standing
near the cardinal, my patron, and the moment I approached her she caused
me a strange feeling of surprise by asking me in Italian a question which
I was far from anticipating:

“How did you like Frascati?”

“Very much, madam; I have never seen such a beautiful place.”

“But your company was still more beautiful, and your vis-a-vis was very
smart.”

I only bowed low to the marchioness, and a moment after Cardinal
Acquaviva said to me, kindly,

“You are astonished at your adventure being known?”

“No, my lord; but I am surprised that people should talk of it. I could
not have believed Rome to be so much like a small village.”

“The longer you live in Rome,” said his eminence, “the more you will find
it so. You have not yet presented yourself to kiss the foot of our Holy
Father?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

“Then you must do so.”

I bowed in compliance to his wishes.

The Abbe Gama told me to present myself to the Pope on the morrow, and he
added,

“Of course you have already shewn yourself in the Marchioness G.’s
palace?”

“No, I have never been there.”

“You astonish me; but she often speaks to you!”

“I have no objection to go with you.”

“I never visit at her palace.”

“Yet she speaks to you likewise.”

“Yes, but…. You do not know Rome; go alone; believe me, you ought to
go.”

“Will she receive me?”

“You are joking, I suppose. Of course it is out of the question for you
to be announced. You will call when the doors are wide open to everybody.
You will meet there all those who pay homage to her.”

“Will she see me?”

“No doubt of it.”

On the following day I proceeded to Monte-Cavallo, and I was at once led
into the room where the Pope was alone. I threw myself on my knees and
kissed the holy cross on his most holy slipper. The Pope enquiring who I
was, I told him, and he answered that he knew me, congratulating me upon
my being in the service of so eminent a cardinal. He asked me how I had
succeeded in gaining the cardinal’s favour; I answered with a faithful
recital of my adventures from my arrival at Martorano. He laughed
heartily at all I said respecting the poor and worthy bishop, and
remarked that, instead of trying to address him in Tuscan, I could speak
in the Venetian dialect, as he was himself speaking to me in the dialect
of Bologna. I felt quite at my ease with him, and I told him so much news
and amused him so well that the Holy Father kindly said that he would be
glad to see me whenever I presented myself at Monte-Cavallo. I begged his
permission to read all forbidden books, and he granted it with his
blessing, saying that I should have the permission in writing, but he
forgot it.

Benedict XIV, was a learned man, very amiable, and fond of a joke. I saw
him for the second time at the Villa Medicis. He called me to him, and
continued his walk, speaking of trifling things. He was then accompanied
by Cardinal Albani and the ambassador from Venice. A man of modest
appearance approached His Holiness, who asked what he required; the man
said a few words in a low voice, and, after listening to him, the Pope
answered, “You are right, place your trust in God;” and he gave him his
blessing. The poor fellow went away very dejected, and the Holy Father
continued his walk.

“This man,” I said, “most Holy Father, has not been pleased with the
answer of Your Holiness.”

“Why?”

“Because most likely he had already addressed himself to God before he
ventured to apply to you; and when Your Holiness sends him to God again,
he finds himself sent back, as the proverb says, from Herod to Pilate.”

The Pope, as well as his two companions, laughed heartily; but I kept a
serious countenance.

“I cannot,” continued the Pope, “do any good without God’s assistance.”

“Very true, Holy Father; but the man is aware that you are God’s prime
minister, and it is easy to imagine his trouble now that the minister
sends him again to the master. His only resource is to give money to the
beggars of Rome, who for one ‘bajocco’ will pray for him. They boast of
their influence before the throne of the Almighty, but as I have faith
only in your credit, I entreat Your Holiness to deliver me of the heat
which inflames my eyes by granting me permission to eat meat.”

“Eat meat, my son.”

“Holy Father, give me your blessing.”

He blessed me, adding that I was not dispensed from fasting.

That very evening, at the cardinal’s assembly, I found that the news of
my dialogue with the Pope was already known. Everybody was anxious to
speak to me. I felt flattered, but I was much more delighted at the joy
which Cardinal Acquaviva tried in vain to conceal.

As I wished not to neglect Gama’s advice, I presented myself at the
mansion of the beautiful marchioness at the hour at which everyone had
free access to her ladyship. I saw her, I saw the cardinal and a great
many abbes; but I might have supposed myself invisible, for no one
honoured me with a look, and no one spoke to me. I left after having
performed for half an hour the character of a mute. Five or six days
afterwards, the marchioness told me graciously that she had caught a
sight of me in her reception-rooms.

“I was there, it is true, madam; but I had no idea that I had had the
honour to be seen by your ladyship.”

“Oh! I see everybody. They tell me that you have wit.”

“If it is not a mistake on the part of your informants, your ladyship
gives me very good news.”

“Oh! they are excellent judges.”

“Then, madam, those persons must have honoured me with their
conversation; otherwise, it is not likely that they would have been able
to express such an opinion.”

“No doubt; but let me see you often at my receptions.”

Our conversation had been overheard by those who were around; his
excellency the cardinal told me that, when the marchioness addressed
herself particularly to me in French, my duty was to answer her in the
same language, good or bad. The cunning politician Gama took me apart,
and remarked that my repartees were too smart, too cutting, and that,
after a time, I would be sure to displease. I had made considerable
progress in French; I had given up my lessons, and practice was all I
required. I was then in the habit of calling sometimes upon Lucrezia in
the morning, and of visiting in the evening Father Georgi, who was
acquainted with the excursion to Frascati, and had not expressed any
dissatisfaction.

Two days after the sort of command laid upon me by the marchioness, I
presented myself at her reception. As soon as she saw me, she favoured me
with a smile which I acknowledged by a deep reverence; that was all. In a
quarter of an hour afterwards I left the mansion. The marchioness was
beautiful, but she was powerful, and I could not make up my mind to crawl
at the feet of power, and, on that head, I felt disgusted with the
manners of the Romans.

One morning towards the end of November the advocate, accompanied by
Angelique’s intended, called on me. The latter gave me a pressing
invitation to spend twenty-four hours at Tivoli with the friends I had
entertained at Frascati. I accepted with great pleasure, for I had found
no opportunity of being alone with Lucrezia since the Festival of St.
Ursula. I promised to be at Donna Cecilia’s house at day-break with the
same ‘is-a-vis’. It was necessary to start very early, because Tivoli is
sixteen miles from Rome, and has so many objects of interest that it
requires many hours to see them all. As I had to sleep out that night, I
craved permission to do so from the cardinal himself, who, hearing with
whom I was going, told me that I was quite right not to lose such an
opportunity of visiting that splendid place in such good society.

The first dawn of day found me with my ‘vis-a-vis’ and four at the door
of Donna Cecilia, who came with me as before. The charming widow,
notwithstanding her strict morality, was delighted at my love for her
daughter. The family rode in a large phaeton hired by Don Francisco,
which gave room for six persons.

At half-past seven in the morning we made a halt at a small place where
had been prepared, by Don Franciso’s orders, an excellent breakfast,
which was intended to replace the dinner, and we all made a hearty meal,
as we were not likely to find time for anything but supper at Tivoli. I
wore on my finger the beautiful ring which Lucrezia had given me. At the
back of the ring I had had a piece of enamel placed, on it was delineated
a saduceus, with one serpent between the letters Alpha and Omega. This
ring was the subject of conversation during breakfast, and Don Francisco,
as well as the advocate, exerted himself in vain to guess the meaning of
the hieroglyphs; much to the amusement of Lucrezia, who understood the
mysterious secret so well. We continued our road, and reached Tivoli at
ten o’clock.

We began by visiting Don Francisco’s villa. It was a beautiful little
house, and we spent the following six hours in examining together the
antiquities of Tivoli. Lucrezia having occasion to whisper a few words to
Don Francisco, I seized the opportunity of telling Angelique that after
her marriage I should be happy to spend a few days of the fine season
with her.

“Sir,” she answered, “I give you fair notice that the moment I become
mistress in this house you will be the very first person to be excluded.”

“I feel greatly obliged to you, signora, for your timely notice.”

But the most amusing part of the affair was that I construed Angelique’s
wanton insult into a declaration of love. I was astounded. Lucrezia,
remarking the state I was in, touched my arm, enquiring what ailed me. I
told her, and she said at once,

“My darling, my happiness cannot last long; the cruel moment of our
separation is drawing near. When I have gone, pray undertake the task of
compelling her to acknowledge her error. Angelique pities me, be sure to
avenge me.”

I have forgotten to mention that at Don Francisco’s villa I happened to
praise a very pretty room opening upon the orange-house, and the amiable
host, having heard me, came obligingly to me, and said that it should be
my room that night. Lucrezia feigned not to hear, but it was to her
Ariadne’s clue, for, as we were to remain altogether during our visit to
the beauties of Tivoli, we had no chance of a tete-a-tete through the
day.

I have said that we devoted six hours to an examination of the
antiquities of Tivoli, but I am bound to confess here that I saw, for my
part, very little of them, and it was only twenty-eight years later that
I made a thorough acquaintance with the beautiful spot.

We returned to the villa towards evening, fatigued and very hungry, but
an hour’s rest before supper–a repast which lasted two hours, the most
delicious dishes, the most exquisite wines, and particularly the
excellent wine of Tivoli–restored us so well that everybody wanted
nothing more than a good bed and the freedom to enjoy the bed according
to his own taste.

As everybody objected to sleep alone, Lucrezia said that she would sleep
with Angelique in one of the rooms leading to the orange-house, and
proposed that her husband should share a room with the young abbe, his
brother-in-law, and that Donna Cecilia should take her youngest daughter
with her.

The arrangement met with general approbation, and Don Francisco, taking a
candle, escorted me to my pretty little room adjoining the one in which
the two sisters were to sleep, and, after shewing me how I could lock
myself in, he wished me good night and left me alone.

Angelique had no idea that I was her near neighbour, but Lucrezia and I,
without exchanging a single word on the subject, had perfectly understood
each other.

I watched through the key-hole and saw the two sisters come into their
room, preceded by the polite Don Francisco, who carried a taper, and,
after lighting a night-lamp, bade them good night and retired. Then my
two beauties, their door once locked, sat down on the sofa and completed
their night toilet, which, in that fortunate climate, is similar to the
costume of our first mother. Lucrezia, knowing that I was waiting to come
in, told her sister to lie down on the side towards the window, and the
virgin, having no idea that she was exposing her most secret beauties to
my profane eyes, crossed the room in a state of complete nakedness.
Lucrezia put out the lamp and lay down near her innocent sister.

Happy moments which I can no longer enjoy, but the sweet remembrance of
which death alone can make me lose! I believe I never undressed myself as
quickly as I did that evening.

I open the door and fall into the arms of my Lucrezia, who says to her
sister, “It is my angel, my love; never mind him, and go to sleep.”

What a delightful picture I could offer to my readers if it were possible
for me to paint voluptuousness in its most enchanting colours! What
ecstasies of love from the very onset! What delicious raptures succeed
each other until the sweetest fatigue made us give way to the soothing
influence of Morpheus!

The first rays of the sun, piercing through the crevices of the shutters,
wake us out of our refreshing slumbers, and like two valorous knights who
have ceased fighting only to renew the contest with increased ardour, we
lose no time in giving ourselves up to all the intensity of the flame
which consumes us.

“Oh, my beloved Lucrezia! how supremely happy I am! But, my darling, mind
your sister; she might turn round and see us.”

“Fear nothing, my life; my sister is kind, she loves me, she pities me;
do you not love me, my dear Angelique? Oh! turn round, see how happy your
sister is, and know what felicity awaits you when you own the sway of
love.”

Angelique, a young maiden of seventeen summers, who must have suffered
the torments of Tantalus during the night, and who only wishes for a
pretext to shew that she has forgiven her sister, turns round, and
covering her sister with kisses, confesses that she has not closed her
eyes through the night.

“Then forgive likewise, darling Angelique, forgive him who loves me, and
whom I adore,” says Lucrezia.

Unfathomable power of the god who conquers all human beings!

“Angelique hates me,” I say, “I dare not….”

“No, I do not hate you!” answers the charming girl.

“Kiss her, dearest,” says Lucrezia, pushing me towards her sister, and
pleased to see her in my arms motionless and languid.

But sentiment, still more than love, forbids me to deprive Lucrezia of
the proof of my gratitude, and I turn to her with all the rapture of a
beginner, feeling that my ardour is increased by Angelique’s ecstasy, as
for the first time she witnesses the amorous contest. Lucrezia, dying of
enjoyment, entreats me to stop, but, as I do not listen to her prayer,
she tricks me, and the sweet Angelique makes her first sacrifice to the
mother of love. It is thus, very likely, that when the gods inhabited
this earth, the voluptuous Arcadia, in love with the soft and pleasing
breath of Zephyrus, one day opened her arms, and was fecundated.

Lucrezia was astonished and delighted, and covered us both with kisses.
Angelique, as happy as her sister, expired deliciously in my arms for the
third time, and she seconded me with so much loving ardour, that it
seemed to me I was tasting happiness for the first time.

Phoebus had left the nuptial couch, and his rays were already diffusing
light over the universe; and that light, reaching us through the closed
shutters, gave me warning to quit the place; we exchanged the most loving
adieus, I left my two divinities and retired to my own room. A few
minutes afterwards, the cheerful voice of the advocate was heard in the
chamber of the sisters; he was reproaching them for sleeping too long!
Then he knocked at my door, threatening to bring the ladies to me, and
went away, saying that he would send me the hair-dresser.

After many ablutions and a careful toilet, I thought I could skew my
face, and I presented myself coolly in the drawing-room. The two sisters
were there with the other members of our society, and I was delighted
with their rosy cheeks. Lucrezia was frank and gay, and beamed with
happiness; Angelique, as fresh as the morning dew, was more radiant than
usual, but fidgety, and carefully avoided looking me in the face. I saw
that my useless attempts to catch her eyes made her smile, and I remarked
to her mother, rather mischievously, that it was a pity Angelique used
paint for her face. She was duped by this stratagem, and compelled me to
pass a handkerchief over her face, and was then obliged to look at me. I
offered her my apologies, and Don Francisco appeared highly pleased that
the complexion of his intended had met with such triumph.

After breakfast we took a walk through the garden, and, finding myself
alone with Lucrezia, I expostulated tenderly with her for having almost
thrown her sister in my arms.

“Do not reproach me,” she said, “when I deserve praise. I have brought
light into the darkness of my charming sister’s soul; I have initiated
her in the sweetest of mysteries, and now, instead of pitying me, she
must envy me. Far from having hatred for you, she must love you dearly,
and as I am so unhappy as to have to part from you very soon, my beloved,
I leave her to you; she will replace me.”

“Ah, Lucrezia! how can I love her?”

“Is she not a charming girl?”

“No doubt of it; but my adoration for you is a shield against any other
love. Besides Don Francisco must, of course, entirely monopolize her, and
I do not wish to cause coolness between them, or to ruin the peace of
their home. I am certain your sister is not like you, and I would bet
that, even now, she upbraids herself for having given way to the ardour
of her temperament:”

“Most likely; but, dearest, I am sorry to say my husband expects to
obtain judgment in the course of this week, and then the short instants
of happiness will for ever be lost to me.”

This was sad news indeed, and to cause a diversion at the breakfast-table
I took much notice of the generous Don Francisco, and promised to compose
a nuptial song for his wedding-day, which had been fixed for the early
part of January.

We returned to Rome, and for the three hours that she was with me in my
vis-a-vis, Lucrezia had no reason to think that my ardour was at all
abated. But when we reached the city I was rather fatigued, and proceeded
at once to the palace.

Lucrezia had guessed rightly; her husband obtained his judgment three or
four days afterwards, and called upon me to announce their departure for
the day after the morrow; he expressed his warm friendship for me, and by
his invitation I spent the two last evenings with Lucrezia, but we were
always surrounded by the family. The day of her departure, wishing to
cause her an agreeable surprise, I left Rome before them and waited for
them at the place where I thought they would put up for the night, but
the advocate, having been detained by several engagements, was detained
in Rome, and they only reached the place next day for dinner. We dined
together, we exchanged a sad, painful farewell, and they continued their
journey while I returned to Rome.

After the departure of this charming woman, I found myself in sort of
solitude very natural to a young man whose heart is not full of hope.

I passed whole days in my room, making extracts from the French letters
written by the cardinal, and his eminence was kind enough to tell me that
my extracts were judiciously made, but that he insisted upon my not
working so hard. The beautiful marchioness was present when he paid me
that compliment.

Since my second visit to her, I had not presented myself at her house;
she was consequently rather cool to me, and, glad of an opportunity of
making me feel her displeasure, she remarked to his eminence that very
likely work was a consolation to me in the great void caused by the
departure of Donna Lucrezia.

“I candidly confess, madam, that I have felt her loss deeply. She was
kind and generous; above all, she was indulgent when I did not call often
upon her. My friendship for her was innocent.”

“I have no doubt of it, although your ode was the work of a poet deeply
in love.”

“Oh!” said the kindly cardinal, “a poet cannot possibly write without
professing to be in love.”

“But,” replied the marchioness, “if the poet is really in love, he has no
need of professing a feeling which he possesses.”

As she was speaking, the marchioness drew out of her pocket a paper which
she offered to his eminence.

“This is the ode,” she said, “it does great honour to the poet, for it is
admitted to be a masterpiece by all the literati in Rome, and Donna
Lucrezia knows it by heart.”

The cardinal read it over and returned it, smiling, and remarking that,
as he had no taste for Italian poetry, she must give herself the pleasure
of translating it into French rhyme if she wished him to admire it.

“I only write French prose,” answered the marchioness, “and a prose
translation destroys half the beauty of poetry. I am satisfied with
writing occasionally a little Italian poetry without any pretension to
poetical fame.”

Those words were accompanied by a very significant glance in my
direction.

“I should consider myself fortunate, madam, if I could obtain the
happiness of admiring some of your poetry.”

“Here is a sonnet of her ladyship’s,” said Cardinal S. C.

I took it respectfully, and I prepared to read it, but the amiable
marchioness told me to put it in my pocket and return it to the cardinal
the next day, although she did not think the sonnet worth so much
trouble. “If you should happen to go out in the morning,” said Cardinal
S. C., “you could bring it back, and dine with me.” Cardinal Aquaviva
immediately answered for me: “He will be sure to go out purposely.”

With a deep reverence, which expressed my thanks, I left the room quietly
and returned to my apartment, very impatient to read the sonnet. Yet,
before satisfying my wish, I could not help making some reflections on
the situation. I began to think myself somebody since the gigantic stride
I had made this evening at the cardinal’s assembly. The Marchioness de G.
had shewn in the most open way the interest she felt in me, and, under
cover of her grandeur, had not hesitated to compromise herself publicly
by the most flattering advances. But who would have thought of
disapproving? A young abbe like me, without any importance whatever, who
could scarcely pretend to her high protection! True, but she was
precisely the woman to grant it to those who, feeling themselves unworthy
of it, dared not shew any pretensions to her patronage. On that head, my
modesty must be evident to everyone, and the marchioness would certainly
have insulted me had she supposed me capable of sufficient vanity to
fancy that she felt the slightest inclination for me. No, such a piece of
self-conceit was not in accordance with my nature. Her cardinal himself
had invited me to dinner. Would he have done so if he had admitted the
possibility of the beautiful marchioness feeling anything for me? Of
course not, and he gave me an invitation to dine with him only because he
had understood, from the very words of the lady, that I was just the sort
of person with whom they could converse for a few hours without any risk;
to be sure, without any risk whatever. Oh, Master Casanova! do you really
think so?

Well, why should I put on a mask before my readers? They may think me
conceited if they please, but the fact of the matter is that I felt sure
of having made a conquest of the marchioness. I congratulated myself
because she had taken the first, most difficult, and most important step.
Had she not done so, I should never have dared-to lay siege to her even
in the most approved fashion; I should never have even ventured to dream
of winning her. It was only this evening that I thought she might replace
Lucrezia. She was beautiful, young, full of wit and talent; she was fond
of literary pursuits, and very powerful in Rome; what more was necessary?
Yet I thought it would be good policy to appear ignorant of her
inclination for me, and to let her suppose from the very next day that I
was in love with her, but that my love appeared to me hopeless. I knew
that such a plan was infallible, because it saved her dignity. It seemed
to me that Father Georgi himself would be compelled to approve such an
undertaking, and I had remarked with great satisfaction that Cardinal
Acquaviva had expressed his delight at Cardinal S. C.’s invitation–an
honour which he had never yet bestowed on me himself. This affair might
have very important results for me.

I read the marchioness’s sonnet, and found it easy, flowing, and well
written. It was composed in praise of the King of Prussia, who had just
conquered Silesia by a masterly stroke. As I was copying it, the idea
struck me to personify Silesia, and to make her, in answer to the sonnet,
bewail that Love (supposed to be the author of the sonnet of the
marchioness) could applaud the man who had conquered her, when that
conqueror was the sworn enemy of Love.

It is impossible for a man accustomed to write poetry to abstain when a
happy subject smiles upon his delighted imagination. If he attempted to
smother the poetical flame running through his veins it would consume
him. I composed my sonnet, keeping the same rhymes as in the original,
and, well pleased with my muse, I went to bed.

The next morning the Abbe Gama came in just as I had finished recopying
my sonnet, and said he would breakfast with me. He complimented me upon
the honour conferred on me by the invitation of Cardinal S. C.

“But be prudent,” he added, “for his eminence has the reputation of being
jealous:”

I thanked him for his friendly advice, taking care to assure him that I
had nothing to fear, because I did not feel the slightest inclination for
the handsome marchioness.

Cardinal S. C. received me with great kindness mingled with dignity, to
make me realize the importance of the favour he was bestowing upon me.

“What do you think,” he enquired, “of the sonnet?”

“Monsignor, it is perfectly written, and, what is more, it is a charming
composition. Allow me to return it to you with my thanks.”

“She has much talent. I wish to shew you ten stanzas of her composition,
my dear abbe, but you must promise to be very discreet about it.”

“Your eminence may rely on me.”

He opened his bureau and brought forth the stanzas of which he was the
subject. I read them, found them well written, but devoid of enthusiasm;
they were the work of a poet, and expressed love in the words of passion,
but were not pervaded by that peculiar feeling by which true love is so
easily discovered. The worthy cardinal was doubtless guilty of a very
great indiscretion, but self-love is the cause of so many injudicious
steps! I asked his eminence whether he had answered the stanzas.

“No,” he replied, “I have not; but would you feel disposed to lend me
your poetical pen, always under the seal of secrecy?”

“As to secrecy, monsignor, I promise it faithfully; but I am afraid the
marchioness will remark the difference between your style and mine.”

“She has nothing of my composition,” said the cardinal; “I do not think
she supposes me a fine poet, and for that reason your stanzas must be
written in such a manner that she will not esteem them above my
abilities.”

“I will write them with pleasure, monsignor, and your eminence can form
an opinion; if they do not seem good enough to be worthy of you, they
need not be given to the marchioness.”

“That is well said. Will you write them at once?”

“What! now, monsignor? It is not like prose.”

“Well, well! try to let me have them to-morrow.”

We dined alone, and his eminence complimented me upon my excellent
appetite, which he remarked was as good as his own; but I was beginning
to understand my eccentric host, and, to flatter him, I answered that he
praised me more than I deserved, and that my appetite was inferior to
his. The singular compliment delighted him, and I saw all the use I could
make of his eminence.

Towards the end of the dinner, as we were conversing, the marchioness
made her appearance, and, as a matter of course, without being announced.
Her looks threw me into raptures; I thought her a perfect beauty. She did
not give the cardinal time to meet her, but sat down near him, while I
remained standing, according to etiquette.

Without appearing to notice me, the marchioness ran wittily over various
topics until coffee was brought in. Then, addressing herself to me, she
told me to sit down, just as if she was bestowing charity upon me.

“By-the-by, abbe,” she said, a minute after, “have you read my sonnet?”

“Yes, madam, and I have had the honour to return it to his eminence. I
have found it so perfect that I am certain it must have cost you a great
deal of time.”

“Time?” exclaimed the cardinal; “Oh! you do not know the marchioness.”

“Monsignor,” I replied, “nothing can be done well without time, and that
is why I have not dared to chew to your eminence an answer to the sonnet
which I have written in half an hour.”

“Let us see it, abbe,” said the marchioness; “I want to read it.”

“Answer of Silesia to Love.” This title brought the most fascinating
blushes on her countenance. “But Love is not mentioned in the sonnet,”
exclaimed the cardinal. “Wait,” said the marchioness, “we must respect
the idea of the poet:”

She read the sonnet over and over, and thought that the reproaches
addressed by Silesia to Love were very just. She explained my idea to the
cardinal, making him understand why Silesia was offended at having been
conquered by the King of Prussia.

“Ah, I see, I see!” exclaimed the cardinal, full of joy; “Silesia is a
woman…. and the King of Prussia…. Oh! oh! that is really a fine
idea!” And the good cardinal laughed heartily for more than a quarter of
an hour. “I must copy that sonnet,” he added, “indeed I must have it.”

“The abbe,” said the obliging marchioness, “will save you the trouble: I
will dictate it to him.”

I prepared to write, but his eminence suddenly exclaimed, “My dear
marchioness, this is wonderful; he has kept the same rhymes as in your
own sonnet: did you observe it?”

The beautiful marchioness gave me then a look of such expression that she
completed her conquest. I understood that she wanted me to know the
cardinal as well as she knew him; it was a kind of partnership in which I
was quite ready to play my part.

As soon as I had written the sonnet under the charming woman’s dictation,
I took my leave, but not before the cardinal had told me that he expected
me to dinner the next day.

I had plenty of work before me, for the ten stanzas I had to compose were
of the most singular character, and I lost no time in shutting myself up
in my room to think of them. I had to keep my balance between two points
of equal difficulty, and I felt that great care was indispensable. I had
to place the marchioness in such a position that she could pretend to
believe the cardinal the author of the stanzas, and, at the same time,
compel her to find out that I had written them, and that I was aware of
her knowing it. It was necessary to speak so carefully that not one
expression should breathe even the faintest hope on my part, and yet to
make my stanzas blaze with the ardent fire of my love under the thin veil
of poetry. As for the cardinal, I knew well enough that the better the
stanzas were written, the more disposed he would be to sign them. All I
wanted was clearness, so difficult to obtain in poetry, while a little
doubtful darkness would have been accounted sublime by my new Midas. But,
although I wanted to please him, the cardinal was only a secondary
consideration, and the handsome marchioness the principal object.

As the marchioness in her verses had made a pompous enumeration of every
physical and moral quality of his eminence, it was of course natural that
he should return the compliment, and here my task was easy. At last
having mastered my subject well, I began my work, and giving full career
to my imagination and to my feelings I composed the ten stanzas, and gave
the finishing stroke with these two beautiful lines from Ariosto:

Le angelicche bellezze nate al cielo
Non si ponno celar sotto alcum velo.

Rather pleased with my production, I presented it the next day to the
cardinal, modestly saying that I doubted whether he would accept the
authorship of so ordinary a composition. He read the stanzas twice over
without taste or expression, and said at last that they were indeed not
much, but exactly what he wanted. He thanked me particularly for the two
lines from Ariosto, saying that they would assist in throwing the
authorship upon himself, as they would prove to the lady for whom they
were intended that he had not been able to write them without borrowing.
And, as to offer me some consolation, he told me that, in recopying the
lines, he would take care to make a few mistakes in the rhythm to
complete the illusion.

We dined earlier than the day before, and I withdrew immediately after
dinner so as to give him leisure to make a copy of the stanzas before the
arrival of the lady.

The next evening I met the marchioness at the entrance of the palace, and
offered her my arm to come out of her carriage. The instant she alighted,
she said to me,

“If ever your stanzas and mine become known in Rome, you may be sure of
my enmity.”

“Madam, I do not understand what you mean.”

“I expected you to answer me in this manner,” replied the marchioness,
“but recollect what I have said.”

I left her at the door of the reception-room, and thinking that she was
really angry with me, I went away in despair. “My stanzas,” I said to
myself, “are too fiery; they compromise her dignity, and her pride is
offended at my knowing the secret of her intrigue with Cardinal S. C.
Yet, I feel certain that the dread she expresses of my want of discretion
is only feigned, it is but a pretext to turn me out of her favour. She
has not understood my reserve! What would she have done, if I had painted
her in the simple apparel of the golden age, without any of those veils
which modesty imposes upon her sex!” I was sorry I had not done so. I
undressed and went to bed. My head was scarcely on the pillow when the
Abbe Gama knocked at my door. I pulled the door-string, and coming in, he
said,

“My dear sir, the cardinal wishes to see you, and I am sent by the
beautiful marchioness and Cardinal S. C., who desire you to come down.”

“I am very sorry, but I cannot go; tell them the truth; I am ill in bed.”

As the abbe did not return, I judged that he had faithfully acquitted
himself of the commission, and I spent a quiet night. I was not yet
dressed in the morning, when I received a note from Cardinal S. C.
inviting me to dinner, saying that he had just been bled, and that he
wanted to speak to me: he concluded by entreating me to come to him
early, even if I did not feel well.

The invitation was pressing; I could not guess what had caused it, but
the tone of the letter did not forebode anything unpleasant. I went to
church, where I was sure that Cardinal Acquaviva would see me, and he
did. After mass, his eminence beckoned to me.

“Are you truly ill?” he enquired.

“No, monsignor, I was only sleepy.”

“I am very glad to hear it; but you are wrong, for you are loved.
Cardinal S. C. has been bled this morning.”

“I know it, monsignor. The cardinal tells me so in this note, in which he
invites me to dine with him, with your excellency’s permission.”

“Certainly. But this is amusing! I did not know that he wanted a third
person.”

“Will there be a third person?”

“I do not know, and I have no curiosity about it.”

The cardinal left me, and everybody imagined that his eminence had spoken
to me of state affairs.

I went to my new Maecenas, whom I found in bed.

“I am compelled to observe strict diet,” he said to me; “I shall have to
let you dine alone, but you will not lose by it as my cook does not know
it. What I wanted to tell you is that your stanzas are, I am afraid, too
pretty, for the marchioness adores them. If you had read them to me in
the same way that she does, I could never have made up my mind to offer
them.” “But she believes them to be written by your eminence?”

“Of course.”

“That is the essential point, monsignor.”

“Yes; but what should I do if she took it into her head to compose some
new stanzas for me?”

“You would answer through the same pen, for you can dispose of me night
and day, and rely upon the utmost secrecy.”

“I beg of you to accept this small present; it is some negrillo snuff
from Habana, which Cardinal Acquaviva has given me.”

The snuff was excellent, but the object which contained it was still
better. It was a splendid gold-enamelled box. I received it with respect,
and with the expression of the deepest gratitude.

If his eminence did not know how to write poetry, at least he knew how to
be generous, and in a delicate manner, and that science is, at least in
my estimation, superior to the other for a great nobleman.

At noon, and much to my surprise, the beautiful marchioness made her
appearance in the most elegant morning toilet.

“If I had known you were in good company,” she said to the cardinal, “I
would not have come.”

“I am sure, dear marchioness, you will not find our dear abbe in the
way.”

“No, for I believe him to be honest and true.”

I kept at a respectful distance, ready to go away with my splendid
snuff-box at the first jest she might hurl at me.

The cardinal asked her if she intended to remain to dinner.

“Yes,” she answered; “but I shall not enjoy my dinner, for I hate to eat
alone.”

“If you would honour him so far, the abbe would keep you company.”

She gave me a gracious look, but without uttering one word.

This was the first time I had anything to do with a woman of quality, and
that air of patronage, whatever kindness might accompany it, always put
me out of temper, for I thought it made love out of the question.
However, as we were in the presence of the cardinal, I fancied that she
might be right in treating me in that fashion.

The table was laid out near the cardinal’s bed, and the marchioness, who
ate hardly anything, encouraged me in my good appetite.

“I have told you that the abbe is equal to me in that respect,” said S.
C.

“I truly believe,” answered the marchioness, “that he does not remain far
behind you; but,” added she with flattery, “you are more dainty in your
tastes.”

“Would her ladyship be so good as to tell me in what I have appeared to
her to be a mere glutton? For in all things I like only dainty and
exquisite morsels.”

“Explain what you mean by saying in all things,” said the cardinal.
Taking the liberty of laughing, I composed a few impromptu verses in
which I named all I thought dainty and exquisite. The marchioness
applauded, saying that she admired my courage.

“My courage, madam, is due to you, for I am as timid as a hare when I am
not encouraged; you are the author of my impromptu.”

“I admire you. As for myself, were I encouraged by Apollo himself, I
could not compose four lines without paper and ink.”

“Only give way boldly to your genius, madam, and you will produce poetry
worthy of heaven.”

“That–is my opinion, too,” said the cardinal. “I entreat you to give me
permission to skew your ten stanzas to the abbe.”

“They are not very good, but I have no objection provided it remains
between us.”

The cardinal gave me, then, the stanzas composed by the marchioness, and
I read them aloud with all the expression, all the feeling necessary to
such reading.

“How well you have read those stanzas!” said the marchioness; “I can
hardly believe them to be my own composition; I thank you very much. But
have the goodness to give the benefit of your reading to the stanzas
which his eminence has written in answer to mine. They surpass them
much.”

“Do not believe it, my dear abbe,” said the cardinal, handing them to me.
“Yet try not to let them lose anything through your reading.”

There was certainly no need of his eminence enforcing upon me such a
recommendation; it was my own poetry. I could not have read it otherwise
than in my best style, especially when I had before me the beautiful
woman who had inspired them, and when, besides, Bacchus was in me giving
courage to Apollo as much as the beautiful eyes of the marchioness were
fanning into an ardent blaze the fire already burning through my whole
being.

I read the stanzas with so much expression that the cardinal was
enraptured, but I brought a deep carnation tint upon the cheeks of the
lovely marchioness when I came to the description of those beauties which
the imagination of the poet is allowed to guess at, but which I could
not, of course, have gazed upon. She snatched the paper from my hands
with passion, saying that I was adding verses of my own; it was true, but
I did not confess it. I was all aflame, and the fire was scorching her as
well as me.

The cardinal having fallen asleep, she rose and went to take a seat on
the balcony; I followed her. She had a rather high seat; I stood opposite
to her, so that her knee touched the fob-pocket in which was my watch.
What a position! Taking hold gently of one of her hands, I told her that
she had ignited in my soul a devouring flame, that I adored her, and
that, unless some hope was left to me of finding her sensible to my
sufferings, I was determined to fly away from her for ever.

“Yes, beautiful marchioness, pronounce my sentence.”

“I fear you are a libertine and an unfaithful lover.”

“I am neither one nor the other.”

With these words I folded her in my arms, and I pressed upon her lovely
lips, as pure as a rose, an ardent kiss which she received with the best
possible grace. This kiss, the forerunner of the most delicious
pleasures, had imparted to my hands the greatest boldness; I was on the
point of…. but the marchioness, changing her position, entreated me so
sweetly to respect her, that, enjoying new voluptuousness through my very
obedience, I not only abandoned an easy victory, but I even begged her
pardon, which I soon read in the most loving look.

She spoke of Lucrezia, and was pleased with my discretion. She then
alluded to the cardinal, doing her best to make me believe that there was
nothing between them but a feeling of innocent friendship. Of course I
had my opinion on that subject, but it was my interest to appear to
believe every word she uttered. We recited together lines from our best
poets, and all the time she was still sitting down and I standing before
her, with my looks rapt in the contemplation of the most lovely charms,
to which I remained insensible in appearance, for I had made up my mind
not to press her that evening for greater favours than those I had
already received.

The cardinal, waking from his long and peaceful siesta, got up and joined
us in his night-cap, and good-naturedly enquired whether we had not felt
impatient at his protracted sleep. I remained until dark and went home
highly pleased with my day’s work, but determined to keep my ardent
desires in check until the opportunity for complete victory offered
itself.

From that day, the charming marchioness never ceased to give me the marks
of her particular esteem, without the slightest constraint; I was
reckoning upon the carnival, which was close at hand, feeling certain
that the more I should spare her delicacy, the more she would endeavour
to find the opportunity of rewarding my loyalty, and of crowning with
happiness my loving constancy. But fate ordained otherwise; Dame Fortune
turned her back upon me at the very moment when the Pope and Cardinal
Acquaviva were thinking of giving me a really good position.

The Holy Father had congratulated me upon the beautiful snuff-box
presented to me by Cardinal S. C., but he had been careful never to name
the marchioness. Cardinal Acquaviva expressed openly his delight at his
brother-cardinal having given me a taste of his negrillo snuff in so
splendid an envelope; the Abbe Gama, finding me so forward on the road to
success, did not venture to counsel me any more, and the virtuous Father
Georgi gave me but one piece of advice-namely, to cling to the lovely
marchioness and not to make any other acquaintances.

Such was my position-truly a brilliant one, when, on Christmas Day, the
lover of Barbara Dalacqua entered my room, locked the door, and threw
himself on the sofa, exclaiming that I saw him for the last time.

“I only come to beg of you some good advice.”

“On what subject can I advise you?”

“Take this and read it; it will explain everything.”

It was a letter from his mistress; the contents were these:

“I am pregnant of a child, the pledge of our mutual love; I can no longer
have any doubt of it, my beloved, and I forewarn you that I have made up
my mind to quit Rome alone, and to go away to die where it may please
God, if you refuse to take care of me and save me. I would suffer
anything, do anything, rather than let my father discover the truth.”

“If you are a man of honour,” I said, “you cannot abandon the poor girl.
Marry her in spite of your father, in spite of her own, and live together
honestly. The eternal Providence of God will watch over you and help you
in your difficulties:”

My advice seemed to bring calm to his mind, and he left me more composed.

At the beginning of January, 1744, he called again, looking very
cheerful. “I have hired,” he said, “the top floor of the house next to
Barbara’s dwelling; she knows it, and to-night I will gain her apartment
through one of the windows of the garret, and we will make all our
arrangements to enable me to carry her off. I have made up my mind; I
have decided upon taking her to Naples, and I will take with us the
servant who, sleeping in the garret, had to be made a confidante of.”

“God speed you, my friend!”

A week afterwards, towards eleven o’clock at night, he entered my room
accompanied by an abbe.

“What do you want so late?”

“I wish to introduce you to this handsome abbe.”

I looked up, and to my consternation I recognized Barbara.

“Has anyone seen you enter the house?” I enquired.

“No; and if we had been seen, what of it? It is only an abbe. We now pass
every night together.”

“I congratulate you.”

“The servant is our friend; she has consented to follow us, and all our
arrangements are completed.”

“I wish you every happiness. Adieu. I beg you to leave me.”

Three or four days after that visit, as I was walking with the Abbe Gama
towards the Villa Medicis, he told me deliberately that there would be an
execution during the night in the Piazza di Spagna.

“What kind of execution?”

“The bargello or his lieutenant will come to execute some ‘ordine
santissimo’, or to visit some suspicious dwelling in order to arrest and
carry off some person who does not expect anything of the sort.”

“How do you know it?”

“His eminence has to know it, for the Pope would not venture to encroach
upon his jurisdiction without asking his permission.”

“And his eminence has given it?”

“Yes, one of the Holy Father’s auditors came for that purpose this
morning.”

“But the cardinal might have refused?”

“Of course; but such a permission is never denied.”

“And if the person to be arrested happened to be under the protection of
the cardinal–what then?”

“His eminence would give timely warning to that person.”

We changed the conversation, but the news had disturbed me. I fancied
that the execution threatened Barbara and her lover, for her father’s
house was under the Spanish jurisdiction. I tried to see the young man
but I could not succeed in meeting him, and I was afraid lest a visit at
his home or at M. Dalacqua’s dwelling might implicate me. Yet it is
certain that this last consideration would not have stopped me if I had
been positively sure that they were threatened; had I felt satisfied of
their danger, I would have braved everything.

About midnight, as I was ready to go to bed, and just as I was opening my
door to take the key from outside, an abbe rushed panting into my room
and threw himself on a chair. It was Barbara; I guessed what had taken
place, and, foreseeing all the evil consequences her visit might have for
me, deeply annoyed and very anxious, I upbraided her for having taken
refuge in my room, and entreated her to go away.

Fool that I was! Knowing that I was only ruining myself without any
chance of saving her, I ought to have compelled her to leave my room, I
ought to have called for the servants if she had refused to withdraw. But
I had not courage enough, or rather I voluntarily obeyed the decrees of
destiny.

When she heard my order to go away, she threw herself on her knees, and
melting into tears, she begged, she entreated my pity!

Where is the heart of steel which is not softened by the tears, by the
prayers of a pretty and unfortunate woman? I gave way, but I told her
that it was ruin for both of us.

“No one,” she replied, “has seen me, I am certain, when I entered the
mansion and came up to your room, and I consider my visit here a week ago
as most fortunate; otherwise, I never could have known which was your
room.”

“Alas! how much better if you had never come! But what has become of your
lover?”

“The ‘sbirri’ have carried him off, as well as the servant. I will tell
you all about it. My lover had informed me that a carriage would wait
to-night at the foot of the flight of steps before the Church of Trinita
del Monte, and that he would be there himself. I entered his room through
the garret window an hour ago. There I put on this disguise, and,
accompanied by the servant, proceeded to meet him. The servant walked a
few yards before me, and carried a parcel of my things. At the corner of
the street, one of the buckles of my shoes being unfastened, I stopped an
instant, and the servant went on, thinking that I was following her. She
reached the carriage, got into it, and, as I was getting nearer, the
light from a lantern disclosed to me some thirty sbirri; at the same
instant, one of them got on the driver’s box and drove off at full speed,
carrying off the servant, whom they must have mistaken for me, and my
lover who was in the coach awaiting me. What could I do at such a fearful
moment? I could not go back to my father’s house, and I followed my first
impulse which brought me here. And here I am! You tell me that my
presence will cause your ruin; if it is so, tell me what to do; I feel I
am dying; but find some expedient and I am ready to do anything, even to
lay my life down, rather than be the cause of your ruin.”

But she wept more bitterly than ever.

Her position was so sad that I thought it worse even than mine, although
I could almost fancy I saw ruin before me despite my innocence.

“Let me,” I said, “conduct you to your father; I feel sure of obtaining
your pardon.”

But my proposal only enhanced her fears.

“I am lost,” she exclaimed; “I know my father. Ah! reverend sir, turn me
out into the street, and abandon me to my miserable fate.”

No doubt I ought to have done so, and I would have done it if the
consciousness of what was due to my own interest had been stronger than
my feeling of pity. But her tears! I have often said it, and those
amongst my readers who have experienced it, must be of the same opinion;
there is nothing on earth more irresistible than two beautiful eyes
shedding tears, when the owner of those eyes is handsome, honest, and
unhappy. I found myself physically unable to send her away.

“My poor girl,” I said at last, “when daylight comes, and that will not
be long, for it is past midnight, what do you intend to do?”

“I must leave the palace,” she replied, sobbing. “In this disguise no one
can recognize me; I will leave Rome, and I will walk straight before me
until I fall on the ground, dying with grief and fatigue.”

With these words she fell on the floor. She was choking; I could see her
face turn blue; I was in the greatest distress.

I took off her neck-band, unlaced her stays under the abbe’s dress, I
threw cold water in her face, and I finally succeeded in bringing her
back to consciousness.

The night was extremely cold, and there was no fire in my room. I advised
her to get into my bed, promising to respect her.

“Alas! reverend sir, pity is the only feeling with which I can now
inspire anyone.”

And, to speak the truth I was too deeply moved, and, at the same time,
too full of anxiety, to leave room in me for any desire. Having induced
her to go to bed, and her extreme weakness preventing her from doing
anything for herself, I undressed her and put her to bed, thus proving
once more that compassion will silence the most imperious requirements of
nature, in spite of all the charms which would, under other
circumstances, excite to the highest degree the senses of a man. I lay
down near her in my clothes, and woke her at day-break. Her strength was
somewhat restored, she dressed herself alone, and I left my room, telling
her to keep quiet until my return. I intended to proceed to her father’s
house, and to solicit her pardon, but, having perceived some
suspicious-looking men loitering about the palace, I thought it wise to
alter my mind, and went to a coffeehouse.

I soon ascertained that a spy was watching my movements at a distance;
but I did not appear to notice him, and having taken some chocolate and
stored a few biscuits in my pocket, I returned towards the palace,
apparently without any anxiety or hurry, always followed by the same
individual. I judged that the bargello, having failed in his project, was
now reduced to guesswork, and I was strengthened in that view of the case
when the gate-keeper of the palace told me, without my asking any
question, as I came in, that an arrest had been attempted during the
night, and had not succeeded. While he was speaking, one of the auditors
of the Vicar-General called to enquire when he could see the Abby Gama. I
saw that no time was to be lost, and went up to my room to decide upon
what was to be done.

I began by making the poor girl eat a couple of biscuits soaked in some
Canary wine, and I took her afterwards to the top story of the palace,
where, leaving her in a not very decent closet which was not used by
anyone, I told her to wait for me.

My servant came soon after, and I ordered him to lock the door of my room
as soon as he finished cleaning it, and to bring me the key at the Abbe
Gama’s apartment, where I was going. I found Gama in conversation with
the auditor sent by the Vicar-General. As soon as he had dismissed him,
he came to me, and ordered his servant to serve the chocolate. When we
were left alone he gave me an account of his interview with the auditor,
who had come to entreat his eminence to give orders to turn out of his
palace a person who was supposed to have taken refuge in it about
midnight. “We must wait,” said the abbe, “until the cardinal is visible,
but I am quite certain that, if anyone has taken refuge here unknown to
him, his eminence will compel that person to leave the palace.” We then
spoke of the weather and other trifles until my servant brought my key.
Judging that I had at least an hour to spare, I bethought myself of a
plan which alone could save Barbara from shame and misery.

Feeling certain that I was unobserved, I went up to my poor prisoner and
made her write the following words in French:

“I am an honest girl, monsignor, though I am disguised in the dress of an
abbe. I entreat your eminence to allow me to give my name only to you and
in person. I hope that, prompted by the great goodness of your soul, your
eminence will save me from dishonour.” I gave her the necessary
instructions, as to sending the note to the cardinal, assuring her that
he would have her brought to him as soon as he read it.

“When you are in his presence,” I added, “throw yourself on your knees,
tell him everything without any concealment, except as regards your
having passed the night in my room. You must be sure not to mention that
circumstance, for the cardinal must remain in complete ignorance of my
knowing anything whatever of this intrigue. Tell him that, seeing your
lover carried off, you rushed to his palace and ran upstairs as far as
you could go, and that after a most painful night Heaven inspired you
with the idea of writing to him to entreat his pity. I feel certain that,
one way or the other, his eminence will save you from dishonour, and it
certainly is the only chance you have of being united to the man you love
so dearly.”

She promised to follow ‘my instructions faithfully, and, coming down, I
had my hair dressed and went to church, where the cardinal saw me. I then
went out and returned only for dinner, during which the only subject of
conversation was the adventure of the night. Gama alone said nothing, and
I followed his example, but I understood from all the talk going on round
the table that the cardinal had taken my poor Barbara under his
protection. That was all I wanted, and thinking that I had nothing more
to fear I congratulated myself, in petto, upon my stratagem, which had, I
thought, proved a master-stroke. After dinner, finding myself alone with
Gama, I asked him what was the meaning of it all, and this is what he
told me:

“A father, whose name I do not know yet, had requested the assistance of
the Vicar-General to prevent his son from carrying off a young girl, with
whom he intended to leave the States of the Church; the pair had arranged
to meet at midnight in this very square, and the Vicar, having previously
obtained the consent of our cardinal, as I told you yesterday, gave
orders to the bargello to dispose his men in such a way as to catch the
young people in the very act of running away, and to arrest them. The
orders were executed, but the ‘sbirri’ found out, when they returned to
the bargello, that they had met with only a half success, the woman who
got out of the carriage with the young man not belonging to that species
likely to be carried off. Soon afterwards a spy informed the bargello
that, at the very moment the arrest was executed, he had seen a young
abbe run away very rapidly and take refuge in this palace, and the
suspicion immediately arose that it might be the missing young lady in
the disguise of an ecclesiastic. The bargello reported to the
Vicar-General the failure of his men, as well as the account given by the
spy, and the Prelate, sharing the suspicion of the police, sent to his
eminence, our master, requesting him to have the person in question, man
or woman, turned out of the palace, unless such persons should happen to
be known to his excellency, and therefore above suspicion. Cardinal
Acquaviva was made acquainted with these circumstances at nine this
morning through the auditor you met in my room, and he promised to have
the person sent away unless she belonged to his household.

“According to his promise, the cardinal ordered the palace to be
searched, but, in less than a quarter of an hour, the major-domo received
orders to stop, and the only reason for these new instructions must be
this:

“I am told by the major-domo that at nine o’clock exactly a very
handsome, young abbe, whom he immediately judged to be a girl in
disguise, asked him to deliver a note to his eminence, and that the
cardinal, after reading it, had desired the said abbe be brought to his
apartment, which he has not left since. As the order to stop searching
the palace was given immediately after the introduction of the abbe to
the cardinal, it is easy enough to suppose that this ecclesiastic is no
other than the young girl missed by the police, who took refuge in the
palace in which she must have passed the whole night.”

“I suppose,” said I, “that his eminence will give her up to-day, if not
to the bargello, at least to the Vicar-General.”

“No, not even to the Pope himself,” answered Gama. “You have not yet a
right idea of the protection of our cardinal, and that protection is
evidently granted to her, since the young person is not only in the
palace of his eminence, but also in his own apartment and under his own
guardianship.”

The whole affair being in itself very interesting, my attention could not
appear extraordinary to Gama, however suspicious he might be naturally,
and I was certain that he would not have told me anything if he had
guessed the share I had taken in the adventure, and the interest I must
have felt in it.

The next day, Gama came to my room with a radiant countenance, and
informed me that the Cardinal-Vicar was aware of the ravisher being my
friend, and supposed that I was likewise the friend of the girl, as she
was the daughter of my French teacher. “Everybody,” he added, “is
satisfied that you knew the whole affair, and it is natural to suspect
that the poor girl spent the night in your room. I admire your prudent
reserve during our conversation of yesterday. You kept so well on your
guard that I would have sworn you knew nothing whatever of the affair.”

“And it is the truth,” I answered, very seriously; “I have only learned
all the circumstances from you this moment. I know the girl, but I have
not seen her for six weeks, since I gave up my French lessons; I am much
better acquainted with the young man, but he never confided his project
to me. However, people may believe whatever they please. You say that it
is natural for the girl to have passed the night in my room, but you will
not mind my laughing in the face of those who accept their own
suppositions as realities.”

“That, my dear friend,” said the abbe, “is one of the vices of the
Romans; happy those who can afford to laugh at it; but this slander may
do you harm, even in the mind of our cardinal.”

As there was no performance at the Opera that night, I went to the
cardinal’s reception; I found no difference towards me either in the
cardinal’s manners, or in those of any other person, and the marchioness
was even more gracious than usual.

After dinner, on the following day, Gama informed me that the cardinal
had sent the young girl to a convent in which she would be well treated
at his eminence’s expense, and that he was certain that she would leave
it only to become the wife of the young doctor.

“I should be very happy if it should turn out so,” I replied; “for they
are both most estimable people.”

Two days afterwards, I called upon Father Georgi, and he told me, with an
air of sorrow, that the great news of the day in Rome was the failure of
the attempt to carry off Dalacqua’s daughter, and that all the honour of
the intrigue was given to me, which displeased him much. I told him what
I had already told Gama, and he appeared to believe me, but he added that
in Rome people did not want to know things as they truly were, but only
as they wished them to be.

“It is known, that you have been in the habit of going every morning to
Dalacqua’s house; it is known that the young man often called on you;
that is quite enough. People do not care, to know the circumstances which
might counteract the slander, but only those, likely to give it new force
for slander is vastly relished in the Holy City. Your innocence will not
prevent the whole adventure being booked to your account, if, in forty
years time you were proposed as pope in the conclave.”

During the following days the fatal adventure began to cause me more
annoyance than I could express, for everyone mentioned it to me, and I
could see clearly that people pretended to believe what I said only
because they did not dare to do otherwise. The marchioness told me
jeeringly that the Signora Dalacqua had contracted peculiar obligations
towards me, but my sorrow was very great when, during the last days of
the carnival, I remarked that Cardinal Acquaviva’s manner had become
constrained, although I was the only person who observed the change.

The noise made by the affair was, however, beginning to subside, when, in
the first days of Lent, the cardinal desired me to come to his private
room, and spoke as follows:

“The affair of the girl Dalacqua is now over; it is no longer spoken of,
but the verdict of the public is that you and I have profited by the
clumsiness of the young man who intended to carry her off. In reality I
care little for such a verdict, for, under similar circumstances, I
should always act in a similar manner, and I do not wish to know that
which no one can compel you to confess, and which, as a man of honour,
you must not admit. If you had no previous knowledge of the intrigue, and
had actually turned the girl out of your room (supposing she did come to
you), you would have been guilty of a wrong and cowardly action, because
you would have sealed her misery for the remainder of her days, and it
would not have caused you to escape the suspicion of being an accomplice,
while at the same time it would have attached to you the odium of
dastardly treachery. Notwithstanding all I have just said, you can easily
imagine that, in spite of my utter contempt for all gossiping fools, I
cannot openly defy them. I therefore feel myself compelled to ask you not
only to quit my service, but even to leave Rome. I undertake to supply
you with an honourable pretext for your departure, so as to insure you
the continuation of the respect which you may have secured through the
marks of esteem I have bestowed upon you. I promise you to whisper in the
ear of any person you may choose, and even to inform everybody, that you
are going on an important mission which I have entrusted to you. You have
only to name the country where you want to go; I have friends everywhere,
and can recommend you to such purpose that you will be sure to find
employment. My letters of recommendation will be in my own handwriting,
and nobody need know where you are going. Meet me to-morrow at the Villa
Negroni, and let me know where my letters are to be addressed. You must
be ready to start within a week. Believe me, I am sorry to lose you; but
the sacrifice is forced upon me by the most absurd prejudice. Go now, and
do not let me witness your grief.”

He spoke the last words because he saw my eyes filling with tears, and he
did not give me time to answer. Before leaving his room, I had the
strength of mind to compose myself, and I put on such an air of
cheerfulness that the Abbe Gama, who took me to his room to drink some
coffee, complimented me upon my happy looks.

“I am sure,” he said, “that they are caused by the conversation you have
had with his eminence.”

“You are right; but you do not know the sorrow at my heart which I try
not to shew outwardly.”

“What sorrow?”

“I am afraid of failing in a difficult mission which the cardinal has
entrusted me with this morning. I am compelled to conceal how little
confidence I feel in myself in order not to lessen the good opinion his
eminence is pleased to entertain of me.”

“If my advice can be of any service to you, pray dispose of me; but you
are quite right to chew yourself calm and cheerful. Is it any business to
transact in Rome?”

“No; it is a journey I shall have to undertake in a week or ten days.”

“Which way?”

“Towards the west.”

“Oh! I am not curious to know.”

I went out alone and took a walk in the Villa Borghese, where I spent two
hours wrapped in dark despair. I liked Rome, I was on the high road to
fortune, and suddenly I found myself in the abyss, without knowing where
to go, and with all my hopes scattered to the winds. I examined my
conduct, I judged myself severely, I could not find myself guilty of any
crime save of too much kindness, but I perceived how right the good
Father Georgi had been. My duty was not only to take no part in the
intrigue of the two love, but also to change my French teacher the moment
I beard of it; but this was like calling in a doctor after death has
struck the patient. Besides, young as I was, having no experience yet of
misfortune, and still less of the wickedness of society, it was very
difficult for me to have that prudence which a man gains only by long
intercourse with the world.

“Where shall I go?” This was the question which seemed to me impossible
of solution. I thought of it all through the night, and through the
morning, but I thought in vain; after Rome, I was indifferent where I
went to!

In the evening, not caring for any supper, I had gone to my room; the
Abbe Gama came to me with a request from the cardinal not to accept any
invitation to dinner for the next day, as he wanted to speak to me. I
therefore waited upon his eminence the next day at the Villa Negroni; he
was walking with his secretary, whom he dismissed the moment he saw me.
As soon as we were alone, I gave him all the particulars of the intrigue
of the two lovers, and I expressed in the most vivid manner the sorrow I
felt at leaving his service.

“I have no hope of success,” I added, “for I am certain that Fortune will
smile upon me only as long as I am near your eminence.”

For nearly an hour I told him all the grief with which my heart was
bursting, weeping bitterly; yet I could not move him from his decision.
Kindly, but firmly he pressed me to tell him to what part of Europe I
wanted to go, and despair as much as vexation made me name
Constantinople.

“Constantinople!” he exclaimed, moving back a step or two.

“Yes, monsignor, Constantinople,” I repeated, wiping away my tears.

The prelate, a man of great wit, but a Spaniard to the very back-bone,
after remaining silent a few minutes, said, with a smile,

“I am glad you have not chosen Ispahan, as I should have felt rather
embarrassed. When do you wish to go?”

“This day week, as your eminence has ordered me.”

“Do you intend to sail from Naples or from Venice?”

“From Venice.”

“I will give you such a passport as will be needed, for you will find two
armies in winter-quarters in the Romagna. It strikes me that you may tell
everybody that I sent you to Constantinople, for nobody will believe
you.”

This diplomatic suggestion nearly made me smile. The cardinal told me
that I should dine with him, and he left me to join his secretary.

When I returned to the palace, thinking of the choice I had made, I said
to myself, “Either I am mad, or I am obeying the impulse of a mysterious
genius which sends me to Constantinople to work out my fate.” I was only
astonished that the cardinal had so readily accepted my choice. “Without
any doubt,” I thought, “he did not wish me to believe that he had boasted
of more than he could achieve, in telling me that he had friends
everywhere. But to whom can he recommend me in Constantinople? I have not
the slightest idea, but to Constantinople I must go.”

I dined alone with his eminence; he made a great show of peculiar
kindness and I of great satisfaction, for my self-pride, stronger even
than my sorrow, forbade me to let anyone guess that I was in disgrace. My
deepest grief was, however, to leave the marchioness, with whom I was in
love, and from whom I had not obtained any important favour.

Two days afterwards, the cardinal gave me a passport for Venice, and a
sealed letter addressed to Osman Bonneval, Pacha of Caramania, in
Constantinople. There was no need of my saying anything to anyone, but,
as the cardinal had not forbidden me to do it, I shewed the address on
the letter to all my acquaintances.

The Chevalier de Lezze, the Venetian Ambassador, gave me a letter for a
wealthy Turk, a very worthy man who had been his friend; Don Gaspar and
Father Georgi asked me to write to them, but the Abbe Gams, laughed, and
said he was quite sure I was not going to Constantinople.

I went to take my farewell of Donna Cecilia, who had just received a
letter from Lucrezia, imparting the news that she would soon be a mother.
I also called upon Angelique and Don Francisco, who had lately been
married and had not invited me to the wedding.

When I called to take Cardinal Acquaviva’s final instructions he gave me
a purse containing one hundred ounces, worth seven hundred sequins. I had
three hundred more, so that my fortune amounted to one thousand sequins;
I kept two hundred, and for the rest I took a letter of exchange upon a
Ragusan who was established in Ancona. I left Rome in the coach with a
lady going to Our Lady of Loretto, to fulfil a vow made during a severe
illness of her daughter, who accompanied her. The young lady was ugly; my
journey was a rather tedious one.

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