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."
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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 tomorrow, 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
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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.
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 innkeeper. 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?"
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"I don't know. He says Providence will take care of us." "What does your mother say?"