"I wanted to see you," she said, "to return the two hundred sequins which you lent me so nobly. Here they are; be good enough to give me back my note of hand."
"Your note of hand, madam, is no longer in my possession. I have deposited it in a sealed envelope with the notary who, according to this receipt of his, can return it only to you."
I gave her the receipt.
She looked at me.
"Why did you not keep it yourself?"
"Because I was afraid of losing it, or of having it stolen. And in the event of my death I did not want such a document to fall into any other hands but yours."
"A great proof of your extreme delicacy, certainly, but I think you ought to have reserved the right of taking it out of the notary's custody yourself."
"I did not foresee the possibility of calling for it myself."
"Yet it was a very likely thing. Then I can send word to the notary to transmit it to me?"
"Certainly, madam; you alone can claim it."
She sent at once.
The notary came himself with the envelope. She took it, broke the seal, and drew out the paper.
It was blackened with ink from top to bottom. Not one word could be read. Only her name remained untouched.
For a moment she said nothing.
"You have acted," she said, "most nobly; but you must agree with me that I cannot be certain that this piece of paper is really my note of hand, although I see my name on it."
"True, madam; and if you are not certain of it, I confess myself in the wrong."
"I must be certain of it, and I am so; but you must grant that I could not swear to it."
"Granted, madam."
During the following days, I noticed a singular change in her manner towards me.
She no longer received me in her charming dishabille which had once seemed to grant me a privilege. Now I had to wait with great patience until her maid had completed every detail of her toilette before I was admitted.
If I told a story, she did not seem to understand it.
If I risked a jest, she missed the point.
If I made an observation which would have amused her a week earlier, she looked away, and the words died on my lips.
I soon discovered that I could not speak well unless she listened well. Her eyes had become part of my wit, and when she withdrew them, she took half my talent with her.
When M. D. R. laughed at something I had said, she would ask,
"What are you laughing at?"
He would explain.
She would shrug.
"That is dull."
Or worse,
"That is very insipid."
If one of her bracelets became unfastened, I offered to fasten it again, but either she would not give me so much trouble, or I did not understand the fastening, and the maid was called to do it.
I could not help shewing my vexation, but she did not seem to take the slightest notice of it.
If M. D---- R---- excited me to say something amusing or witty and I did not speak immediately, Madame F. would laugh and say.
"His budget is empty. Poor M. Casanova's wit is worn out."
I answered nothing.
Silence, in such moments, was not dignity. It was defeat. I felt rage rise in me, but rage could not help me.
I was thoroughly miserable, for I did not see any cause for that extraordinary change in her feelings, being conscious that I had not given her any motive for it.
I wanted to show her indifference.
I wanted to meet coldness with coldness, contempt with contempt, and prove that I could live without one look from her. I prepared speeches full of pride. I imagined bows of perfect detachment, smiles of calm superiority, absences that would make her uneasy.
When the opportunity came, my courage would forsake me, and I would let it escape.
One evening, M. D. R. asked me whether I had often been in love.
"Three times, my lord."
"And always happily, of course."
"Always unhappily."
Madame F. was present. I did not look at her, but I felt her attention turn towards me.
"The first time," I continued, "perhaps, because, being an ecclesiastic, I durst not speak openly of my love. The second, because a cruel, unexpected event compelled me to leave the woman I loved at the very moment in which my happiness would have been complete. The third time, because the feeling of pity, with which I inspired the beloved object, induced her to cure me of my passion, instead of crowning my felicity."
D. R. asked.
"But what specific remedies did she use to effect your cure?"
"She ceased to be kind."
"I understand she has treated you cruelly, and you call that pity, do you? You are mistaken."
Madame F. interjected.
"Certainly. A woman may pity the man she loves, but she would not think of ill-treating him to cure him of his passion. That woman has never felt any love for you."
I raised my eyes for a moment, then lowered them again.
"I cannot, I will not believe it, madam."
"But are you cured?"
"Oh! thoroughly; for when I happen to think of her, I feel nothing but indifference and coldness. But my recovery was long."
"Your convalescence lasted, I suppose," she said, "until you fell in love with another."
"With another, madam? I thought I had just told you that the third time I loved was the last."
A few days after that conversation, M. D. R. told me that Madame F. was unwell.
"I cannot keep her company," he said. "Go to her. I am sure she will be glad to see you."
I obeyed.
I found her lying on a sofa. She did not look at me when I entered.
"M. D. R. has sent me," I said. "He told me you were unwell, and that my presence might not displease you."
"I am feverish," she answered. "I would not ask you to remain with me since you would feel weary."
"I could not experience any weariness in your society, madam; at all events, I can leave you only by your express command, and, in that case, I must spend the next four hours in your ante-room, for M. D--- R---- has told me to wait for him here."
"If so, you may take a seat."
Her cold and distant manner repelled me, but I loved her. Besides, I had never seen her more beautiful.
The fever had given her complexion a brilliance which health itself could not have improved. Her eyes were brighter, her lips warmer in colour, and the slight languor of her posture lent to her beauty something dangerous and tender at once.
I kept where I was, dumb and as motionless as a statue, for a quarter of an hour.
At last she rang.
Her maid came in.
"Leave me for a moment," she said to me.
I withdrew.
A few minutes later I was called back.
She looked at me then, and said,
"What has become of your cheerfulness?"
"If it has disappeared, madam, it can only be by your will. Call it back, and you will see it return in full force."
"What must I do to obtain that result?"
"Only be towards me as you were when I returned from Casopo. I have been disagreeable to you for the last four months, and as I do not know why, I feel deeply grieved."
"I am always the same. In what do you find me changed?"
"Good heavens! In everything, except in beauty. But I have taken my decision"
"And what is it?"
"To suffer in silence, without allowing any circumstance to alter the feelings with which you have inspired me; to wish ardently to convince you of my perfect obedience to your commands; to be ever ready to give you fresh proofs of my devotion."
"I thank you," she said, "but I cannot imagine what you can have to suffer in silence on my account. I take an interest in you, and I always listen with pleasure to your adventures."
She paused, then added.
"As a proof of it, I am extremely curious to hear the history of your three loves."
I invented on the spot three purely imaginary stories, making a great display of tender sentiments and of ardent love, but without alluding to amorous enjoyment, particularly when she seemed to expect me to do so.
Sometimes delicacy, sometimes respect or duty, interfered to prevent the crowning pleasure, and I took care to observe, at such moments of disappointment, that a true lover does not require that all important item to feel perfectly happy.
I could easily see that her imagination was travelling farther than my narrative, and that my reserve was agreeable to her.
I believed I knew her nature well enough to be certain that I was taking the best road to induce her to follow me where I wished to lead her.
While I was speaking of my third love, the woman who, out of pity, had tried to cure me, Madame F. said a thing which struck me deeply.
"If she truly loved you," she murmured, "perhaps she did not wish to cure you, but to cure herself."
I did not show how much those words moved me.
They were too close to confession. She had spoken of another woman, but I heard herself.
The next day, after this partial reconciliation, her husband, M. F., asked my commanding officer, M. D. R., to let me accompany him to Butrinto for three days. His own adjutant was seriously ill, and he needed someone in that office.
Butrinto lies about seven miles from Corfu, almost opposite the city. It is not a fortress, but a small village of Epirus, or Albania as it is now called, and belonged to the Venetians.
The Republic, following the political axiom that a neglected right becomes a lost right, sends four galleys there every year. The galley slaves cut timber, load it, and bring it back, while the soldiers watch them closely to prevent escape into Turkish territory, where a slave might become a Mussulman and recover liberty.
One of these four galleys was commanded by M. F.
Needing an adjutant, he chose me.
I went with him.
On the fourth day we returned to Corfu with a large supply of wood.
I found M. D. R. alone on the terrace of his palace.
It was Good Friday.
He stood near the balustrade, looking out without seeming to see anything. For several minutes he said nothing.
Then he spoke words I have never forgotten.
"M. F-----, whose adjutant died yesterday, has just been entreating me to give you to him until he can find another officer. I have told him that I had no right to dispose of your person, and that he, ought to apply to you, assuring him that, if you asked me leave to go with him, I would not raise any objection, although I require two adjutants. Has he not mentioned the matter to you?"
"No, monsignor, he has only tendered me his thanks for having accompanied him to Butintro, nothing else."
"He is sure to speak to you about it. What do you intend to say?"
"Simply that I will never leave the service of your excellency without your express command to do so."
"I never will give you such an order."
He had scarcely spoken when M. F. and Madame F. entered.
I guessed at once that the matter would return, and I left the terrace before anyone could force me to hear it begun in my presence.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, I was sent for.
I returned.
F. addressed me with an air of confidence, as if the thing were already half settled.
"Well, M. Casanova, would you not be willing to live with me as my adjutant?"
I looked first at him, then at M. D. R.
"Does his excellency dismiss me from his service?"
"Not at all," said M. D. R, "but I leave you the choice."
"My lord," I replied, "I could not be guilty of ingratitude."
I remained standing.
My eyes were on the floor. I did not even try to hide my mortification. The position was too painful for composure.
To go with M. F. would bring me nearer to the woman I adored; to leave M. D. R. would make me appear ungrateful to the man who had protected me, distinguished me, and treated me almost as a friend.
I dreaded looking at Madame F. for I knew that she could easily guess all my feelings.
A moment later, her foolish husband spoke coldly.
"You would certainly have a more fatiguing service with me than with M. D. R. Besides, it is naturally more honourable to serve the general governor of the galleasses than a simple sopracomito."
I was on the point of answering, when Madame F---- said, in a graceful and easy manner, "M. Casanova is right."
Then she changed the subject.
I left the room soon after, turning over everything that had passed.
My conclusion was simple. M. F. had asked for me either at his wife's suggestion, or at least with her consent. That thought flattered both my love and my vanity. To live in her house, to see her daily, to serve under the same roof, to find occasion where now I had to wait for chance, all this dazzled me.
But honour held me back.
I was bound in honour not to accept the post, unless I had a perfect assurance that it would not be disagreeable to my present patron.
"I will accept," I said to myself, "if M. D---- R---- tells me positively that I shall please him by doing so. It is for M. F to make him say it."
That resolution calmed me a little.