The Complete Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt

by Giacomo Casanova

  "Yes, she understands it, and as for her laughter it was due to the fact that she knows me to be like all other Venetians."

  "Possibly, but it is easy to see that you have lived a long time in France."

  "Yes, madam," said Marcoline; and these words in her pretty Venetian accent were a pleasure to hear.

  The gentleman who had taken the lady to her room said that she found her foot to be rather swollen, and had gone to bed hoping we would all come upstairs.

  We found her lying in a splendid bed, placed in an alcove which the thick curtains of red satin made still darker. I could not see whether she was young or old, pretty or ugly. I said that I was very sorry to be the indirect cause of her mishap, and she replied in good Italian that it was a matter of no consequence, and that she did not think she could pay too dear for the privilege of entertaining such pleasant guests.

  "Your ladyship must have lived in Venice to speak the language with so much correctness."

  "No, I have never been there, but I have associated a good deal with Venetians."

  A servant came and told me that the wheelwright had arrived, and that he would take four hours to mend my carriage, so I went downstairs. The man lived at a quarter of a league's distance, and by tying the carriage pole with ropes, I could drive to his place, and wait there for the carriage to be mended. I was about to do so, when the gentleman who did the honours of the house came and asked me, on behalf of the lady, to sup and pass the night at her house, as to go to the wheelwright's would be out of my way; the man would have to work by night, I should be uncomfortable, and the work would be ill done. I assented to the countess's proposal, and having agreed with the man to come early the next day and bring his tools with him, I told Clairmont to take my belongings into the room which was assigned to me.

  When I returned to the countess's room I found everyone laughing at Marcoline's sallies, which the countess translated. I was not astonished at seeing the way in which my fair Venetian caressed the countess, but I was enraged at not being able to see her, for I knew Marcoline would not treat any woman in that manner unless she were pretty.

  The table was spread in the bedroom of the countess, whom I hoped to see at supper-time, but I was disappointed; for she declared that she could not take anything, and all supper-time she talked to Marcoline and myself, shewing intelligence, education, and a great knowledge of Italian. She let fall the expression, "my late husband," so I knew her for a widow, but as I did not dare to ask any questions, my knowledge ended at that point. When Clairmont was undressing me he told me her married name, but as I knew nothing of the family that was no addition to my information.

  When we had finished supper, Marcoline took up her old position by the countess's bed, and they talked so volubly to one another that nobody else could get in a word.

  When politeness bade me retire, my pretended cousin said she was going to sleep with the countess. As the latter laughingly assented, I refrained from telling my madcap that she was too forward, and I could see by their mutual embraces that they were agreed in the matter. I satisfied myself with saying that I could not guarantee the sex of the countess's bed-fellow, but she answered,

  "Never mind; if there be a mistake I shall be the gainer."

  This struck me as rather free, but I was not the man to be scandalized. I was amused at the tastes of my fair Venetian, and at the manner in which she contrived to gratify them as she had done at Genoa with my last niece. As a rule the Provencal women are inclined this way, and far from reproaching them I like them all the better for it.

  The next day I rose at day-break to hurry on the wheelwright, and when the work was done I asked if the countess were visible. Directly after Marcoline came out with one of the gentlemen, who begged me to excuse the countess, as she could not receive me in her present extremely scanty attire; "but she hopes that whenever you are in these parts you will honour her and her house by your company, whether you are alone or with friends."

  This refusal, gilded as it was, was a bitter pill for me to swallow, but I concealed my disgust, as I could only put it down to Marcoline's doings; she seemed in high spirits, and I did not like to mortify her. I thanked the gentleman with effusion, and placing a Louis in the hands of all the servants who were present I took my leave.

  I kissed Marcoline affectionately, so that she should not notice my ill humour, and asked how she and the countess spent the night.

  "Capitally," said she. "The countess is charming, and we amused ourselves all night with the tricks of two amorous women."

  "Is she pretty or old?"

  "She is only thirty-three, and, I assure you, she is as pretty as my friend Mdlle. Crosin. I can speak with authority for we saw each other in a state of nature."

  "You are a singular creature; you were unfaithful to me for a woman, and left me to pass the night by myself."

  "You must forgive me, and I had to sleep with her as she was the first to declare her love."

  "Really? How was that?"

  "When I gave her the first of my kisses she returned it in the Florentine manner, and our tongues met. After supper, I confess, I was the first to begin the suggestive caresses, but she met me half-way. I could only make her happy by spending the night with her. Look, this will shew you how pleased she was."

  With these words Marcoline drew a superb ring, set with brilliants, from her finger. I was astonished.

  "Truly," I said, "this woman is fond of pleasure and deserves to have it."

  I gave my Lesbian (who might have vied with Sappho) a hundred kisses, and forgave her her infidelity.

  "But," I remarked, "I can't think why she did not want me to see her; I think she has treated me rather cavalierly."

  "No, I think the reason was that she was ashamed to be seen by my lover after having made me unfaithful to him; I had to confess that we were lovers."

  "Maybe. At all events you have been well paid; that ring is worth two hundred louis:"

  "But I may as well tell you that I was well enough paid for the pleasure I gave by the pleasure I received."

  "That's right; I am delighted to see you happy."

  "If you want to make me really happy, take me to England with you. My uncle will be there, and I could go back to Venice with him."

  "What! you have an uncle in England? Do you really mean it? It sounds like a fairy-tale. You never told me of it before."

  "I have never said anything about it up to now, because I have always imagined that this might prevent your accomplishing your desire."

  "Is your uncle a Venetian? What is he doing in England? Are you sure that he will welcome you?"

  "Yes."

  "What is his name? And how are we to find him in a town of more than a million inhabitants?"

  "He is ready found. His name is Mattio Boisi, and he is valet de chambre to M. Querini, the Venetian ambassador sent to England to congratulate the new king; he is accompanied by the Procurator Morosini. My uncle is my mother's brother; he is very fond of me, and will forgive my fault, especially when he finds I am rich. When he went to England he said he would be back in Venice in July, and we shall just catch him on the point of departure."

  As far as the embassy went I knew it was all true, from the letters I had received from M. de Bragadin, and as for the rest Marcoline seemed to me to be speaking the truth. I was flattered by her proposal and agreed to take her to England so that I should possess her for five or six weeks longer without committing myself to anything.

  We reached Avignon at the close of the day, and found ourselves very hungry. I knew that the "St. Omer" was an excellent inn, and when I got there I ordered a choice meal and horses for five o'clock the next morning. Marcoline, who did not like night travelling, was in high glee, and threw her arms around my neck, saying,—

  "Are we at Avignon now?"

  "Yes, dearest."

  "Then I conscientiously discharge the trust which the countess placed in me when she embraced me for the last time this morning. She made
me swear not to say a word about it till we got to Avignon."

  "All this puzzles me, dearest; explain yourself."

  "She gave me a letter for you."

  "A letter?"

  "Will you forgive me for not placing it in your hands sooner?"

  "Certainly, if you passed your word to the countess; but where is this letter?"

  "Wait a minute."

  She drew a large bundle of papers from her pocket, saying,—

  "This is my certificate of baptism."

  "I see you were born in 1746."

  "This is a certificate of 'good conduct.'"

  "Keep it, it may be useful to you."

  "This is my certificate of virginity."

  "That's no use. Did you get it from a midwife?"

  "No, from the Patriarch of Venice."

  "Did he test the matter for himself?"

  "No, he was too old; he trusted in me."

  "Well, well, let me see the letter."

  "I hope I haven't lost it."

  "I hope not, to God."

  "Here is your brother's promise of marriage; he wanted to be a Protestant."

  "You may throw that into the fire."

  "What is a Protestant?"

  "I will tell you another time. Give me the letter."

  "Praised be God, here it is!"

  "That's lucky; but it has no address."

  My heart beat fast, as I opened it, and found, instead of an address, these words in Italian:

  "To the most honest man of my acquaintance."

  Could this be meant for me? I turned down the leaf, and read one word—Henriette! Nothing else; the rest of the paper was blank.

  At the sight of that word I was for a moment annihilated.

  "Io non mori, e non rimasi vivo."

  Henriette! It was her style, eloquent in its brevity. I recollected her last letter from Pontarlier, which I had received at Geneva, and which contained only one word—Farewell!

  Henriette, whom I had loved so well, whom I seemed at that moment to love as well as ever. "Cruel Henriette," said I to myself, "you saw me and would not let me see you. No doubt you thought your charms would not have their old power, and feared lest I should discover that after all you were but mortal. And yet I love you with all the ardour of my early passion. Why did you not let me learn from your own mouth that you were happy? That is the only question I should have asked you, cruel fair one. I should not have enquired whether you loved me still, for I feel my unworthiness, who have loved other women after loving the most perfect of her sex. Adorable Henriette, I will fly to you to-morrow, since you told me that I should be always welcome."

  I turned these thoughts over in my own mind, and fortified myself in this resolve; but at last I said,—

  "No, your behaviour proves that you do not wish to see me now, and your wishes shall be respected; but I must see you once before I die."

  Marcoline scarcely dared breathe to see me thus motionless and lost in thought, and I do not know when I should have come to myself if the landlord had not come in saying that he remembered my tastes, and had got me a delicious supper. This brought me to my senses, and I made my fair Venetian happy again by embracing her in a sort of ecstacy.

  "Do you know," she said, "you quite frightened me? You were as pale and still as a dead man, and remained for a quarter of an hour in a kind of swoon, the like of which I have never seen. What is the reason? I knew that the countess was acquainted with you, but I should never have thought that her name by itself could have such an astonishing effect."

  "Well, it is strange; but how did you find out that the countess knew me?"

  "She told me as much twenty times over in the night, but she made me promise to say nothing about it till I had given you the letter."

  "What did she say to you about me?"

  "She only repeated in different ways what she has written for an address."

  "What a letter it is! Her name, and nothing more."

  "It is very strange."

  "Yes, but the name tells all."

  "She told me that if I wanted to be happy I should always remain with you. I said I knew that well; but that you wanted to send me back to Venice, though you were very fond of me. I can guess now that you were lovers. How long ago was it?"

  "Sixteen or seventeen years."

  "She must have been very young, but she cannot have been prettier than she is now."

  "Be quiet, Marcoline."

  "Did your union with her last long?"

  "We lived together four months in perfect happiness."

  "I shall not be happy for so long as that."

  "Yes you will, and longer, too; but with another man, and one more suitable to you in age. I am going to England to try to get my daughter from her mother."

  "Your daughter? The countess asked me if you were married, and I said no."

  "You were right; she is my illegitimate daughter. She must be ten now, and when you see her you will confess that she must belong to me."

  Just as we were sitting down to table we heard someone going downstairs to the table d'hote in the room where I had made Madame Stuard's acquaintance, our door was open, and we could see the people on the stairs; and one of them seeing us gave a cry of joy, and came running in, exclaiming, "My dear papa!" I turned to the light and saw Irene, the same whom I had treated so rudely at Genoa after my discussion with her father about biribi. I embraced her effusively, and the sly little puss, pretending to be surprised to see Marcoline, made her a profound bow, which was returned with much grace. Marcoline listened attentively to our conversation.

  "What are you doing here, fair Irene?"

  "We have been here for the last fortnight. Good heavens! how lucky I am to find you again. I am quite weak. Will you allow me to sit down, madam?"

  "Yes, yes, my dear," said I, "sit down;" and I gave her a glass of wine which restored her.

  A waiter came up, and said they were waiting for her at supper, but she said, "I won't take any supper;" and Marcoline, always desirous of pleasing me, ordered a third place to be laid. I made her happy by giving an approving nod.

  We sat down to table, and ate our meal with great appetite. "When we have done," I said to Irene, "you must tell us what chance has brought you to Avignon."

  Marcoline, who had not spoken a word hitherto, noticing how hungry Irene was, said pleasantly that it would have been a mistake if she had not taken any supper. Irene was delighted to hear Venetian spoken, and thanked her for her kindness, and in three or four minutes they had kissed and become friends.

  It amused me to see the way in which Marcoline always fell in love with pretty women, just as if she had been a man.

  In the course of conversation I found that Irene's father and mother were at the table d'hote below, and from sundry exclamations, such as "you have been brought to Avignon out of God's goodness," I learned that they were in distress. In spite of that Irene's mirthful countenance matched Marcoline's sallies, and the latter was delighted to hear that Irene had only called me papa because her mother had styled her my daughter at Milan.

  We had only got half-way through our supper when Rinaldi and his wife came in. I asked them to sit down, but if it had not been for Irene I should have given the old rascal a very warm reception. He began to chide his daughter for troubling me with her presence when I had such fair company already, but Marcoline hastened to say that Irene could only have given me pleasure, for in my capacity of her uncle I was always glad when she was able to enjoy the society of a sweet young girl.

  "I hope," she added, "that if she doesn't mind she will sleep with me."

  "Yes, yes," resounded on all sides, and though I should have preferred to sleep with Marcoline by herself, I laughed and agreed; I have always been able to accommodate myself to circumstances.

  Irene shared Marcoline's desires, for when it was settled that they should sleep together they seemed wild with joy, and I added fuel to the fire by plying them with punch and champagne.

&n
bsp; Rinaldi and his wife did not leave us till they were quite drunk. When we had got rid of them, Irene told us how a Frenchman had fallen in love with her at Genoa, and had persuaded her father to go to Nice where high play was going on, but meeting with no luck there she had been obliged to sell what she had to pay the inn-keeper. Her lover had assured her that he would make it up to her at Aix, where there was some money owing to him, and she persuaded her father to go there; but the persons who owed the money having gone to Avignon, there had to be another sale of goods.

  "When we got here the luck was no better, and the poor young man, whom my father reproached bitterly, would have killed himself if I had not given him the mantle you gave me that he might pawn it and go on his quest. He got four louis for it, and sent me the ticket with a very tender letter, in which he assured me that he would find some money at Lyons, and that he would then return and take us to Bordeaux, where we are to find treasures. In the meanwhile we are penniless, and as we have nothing more to sell the landlord threatens to turn us out naked."

  "And what does your father mean to do?"

  "I don't know. He says Providence will take care of us."

  "What does your mother say?"

  "Oh! she was as quiet as usual."

  "How about yourself?"

  "Alas! I have to bear a thousand mortifications every day. They are continually reproaching me with having fallen in love with this Frenchman, and bringing them to this dreadful pass."

  "Were you really in love with him?"

  "Yes, really."

  "Then you must be very unhappy."

  "Yes, very; but not on account of my love, for I shall get over that in time, but because of that which will happen to-morrow."

  "Can't you make any conquests at the table-d'hote?"

  "Some of the men say pretty things to me, but as they all know how poor we are they are afraid to come to our room."

  "And yet in spite of all you keep cheerful; you don't look sad like most of the unhappy. I congratulate you on your good spirits." Irene's tale was like the fair Stuard's story over again, and Marcoline, though she had taken rather too much champagne, was deeply moved at this picture of misery. She kissed the girl, telling her that I would not forsake her, and that in the meanwhile they would spend a pleasant night.