When the actors came I noticed amongst them a young man whose face I did not know, and on my enquiring Rossi told me he was the prompter.
"I won't have any prompter; send him about his business."
"We can't get on without him."
"You'll have to; I will be the prompter."
The prompter was dismissed, but the three actresses began to complain.
"If we knew our parts as well as the 'pater noster' we should be certain to come to a dead stop if the prompter isn't in his box."
"Very good," said I to the actress, who was to play Lindane, "I will occupy the box myself, but I shall see your drawers."
"You would have some difficulty in doing that," said the first actor, "she doesn't wear any."
"So much the better."
"You know nothing about it," said the actress.
These remarks put us all in high spirits, and the ministers of Thalia ended by promising that they would dispense with a prompter. I was pleased with the way the piece was read, and they said they would be letter-perfect in three days. But something happened.
On the day fixed for the rehearsal they came without the Lindane andMurray. They were not well, but Rossi said they would not fail useventually. I took the part of Murray, and asked Rosalie to be theLindane.
"I don't read Italian well enough," she whispered, "and I don't wish to have the actors laughing at me; but Veronique could do it."
"Ask if she will read the part."
However, Veronique said that she could repeat it by heart.
"All the better," said I to her, laughing internally, as I thought of Soleure, for I saw that I should thus be obliged to make love to the girl to whom I had not spoken for the fortnight she had been with us. I had not even had a good look at her face. I was so afraid of Rosalie (whom I loved better every day) taking fright.
What I had feared happened. When I took Veronique's hand, and said, "Si, bella Lindana, debbe adorarvi!" everybody clapped, because I gave the words their proper expression; but glancing at Rosalie I saw a shadow on her face, and I was angry at not having controlled myself better. Nevertheless, I could not help feeling amazed at the way Veronique played the part. When I told her that I adored her she blushed up to her eyes; she could not have played the love-sick girl better.
We fixed a day for the dress-rehearsal at the theatre, and the company announced the first night a week in advance to excite public curiosity. The bills ran:
"We shall give Voltaire's Ecossaise, translated by an anonymous author: no prompter will be present."
I cannot give the reader any idea of the trouble I had to quiet Rosalie. She refused to be comforted; wept incessantly, and touched my heart by gentle reproaches.
"You love Veronique," said she, "and you only translated that piece to have an opportunity of declaring your love."
I succeeded in convincing her that she wronged me, and at last after I had lavished caresses on her she suffered herself to be calmed. Next morning she begged pardon for her jealousy, and to cure it insisted on my speaking constantly to Veronique. Her heroism went farther. She got up before me and sent me my coffee by Veronique, who was as astonished as I was.
At heart Rosalie was a great creature, capable of noble resolves, but like all women she gave way to sudden emotions. From that day she gave me no more signs of jealousy, and treated her maid with more kindness than ever. Veronique was an intelligent and well-mannered girl, and if my heart had not been already occupied she would have reigned there.
The first night of the play I took Rosalie to a box, and she would have Veronique with her. M. de Grimaldi did not leave her for a moment. The play was praised to the skies; the large theatre was full of the best people in Genoa. The actors surpassed themselves, though they had no prompter, and were loudly applauded. The piece ran five nights and was performed to full houses. Rossi, hoping perhaps that I would make him a present of another play, asked my leave to give my lady a superb pelisse of lynx-fur, which pleased her immensely.
I would have done anything to spare my sweetheart the least anxiety, and yet from my want of thought I contrived to vex her. I should never have forgiven myself if Providence had not ordained that I should be the cause of her final happiness.
"I have reason to suspect," she said one day, "that I am with child, andI am enchanted at the thought of giving you a dear pledge of my love."
"If it comes at such a time it will be mine, and I assure you I shall love it dearly."
"And if it comes two or three weeks sooner you will not be sure that you are the parent?"
"Not quite sure; but I shall love it just as well, and look upon it as my child as well as yours."
"I am sure you must be the father. It is impossible the child can bePetri's, who only knew me once, and then very imperfectly, whilst you andI have lived in tender love for so long a time."
She wept hot tears.
"Calm yourself, dearest, I implore you! You are right; it cannot be Petri's child. You know I love you, and I cannot doubt that you are with child by me and by me alone. If you give me a baby as pretty as yourself, it will be mine indeed. Calm yourself."
"How can I be calm when you can have such a suspicion?"
We said no more about it; but in spite of my tenderness, my caresses, and all the trifling cares which bear witness to love, she was often sad and thoughtful. How many times I reproached myself bitterly for having let out my silly calculations.
A few days later she gave me a sealed letter, saying,—
"The servant has given me this letter when you were away. I am offended by his doing so, and I want you to avenge me."
I called the man, and said,—
"Where did you get this letter?"
"From a young man, who is unknown to me. He gave me a crown, and begged me to give the letter to the lady without your seeing me, and he promised to give me two crowns more if I brought him a reply tomorrow. I did not think I was doing wrong, sir, as the lady was at perfect liberty to tell you."
"That's all very well, but you must go, as the lady, who gave me the letter unopened, as you can see for yourself, is offended with you."
I called Le Duc, who paid the man and sent him away. I opened the letter, and found it to be from Petri. Rosalie left my side, not wishing to read the contents. The letter ran as follows:
"I have seen you, my dear Rosalie. It was just as you were coming out of the theatre, escorted by the Marquis de Grimaldi, who is my godfather. I have not deceived you; I was still intending to come and marry you at Marseilles next spring, as I promised. I love you faithfully, and if you are still my good Rosalie I am ready to marry you here in the presence of my kinfolk. If you have done wrong I promise never to speak of it, for I know that it was I who led you astray. Tell me, I entreat you, whether I may speak to the Marquis de Grimaldi with regard to you. I am ready to receive you from the hands of the gentleman with whom you are living, provided you are not his wife. Be sure, if you are still free, that you can only recover your honour by marrying your seducer."
"This letter comes from an honourable man who is worthy of Rosalie," I thought to myself, "and that's more than I shall be, unless I marry her myself. But Rosalie must decide."
I called her to me, gave her the letter, and begged her to read it attentively. She did so, and gave it me back, asking me if I advised her to accept Petri's offer.
"If you do dear Rosalie, I shall die of grief; but if I do not yield you, my honour bids me marry you, and that I am quite ready to do."
At this the charming girl threw herself on my breast, crying in the voice of true love, "I love you and you alone, darling; but it is not true that your honour bids you marry me. Ours is a marriage of the heart; our love is mutual, and