That same night, during the procession held in memory of the death of Our Lord, I had the honour of offering my arm to Madame F.
All the nobility attended on foot. I expected she would mention the matter, but she did not.
My love was in despair.
All night I could not close my eyes. I feared she had been offended by my refusal, and was overwhelmed with grief.
The next day I ate nothing. At the evening reception I did not utter a single word. My body soon obeyed my mind. I felt ill, and by Easter Sunday fever had put me to bed.
On Monday I was still weak and intended to remain in my room, when a messenger came from Madame F.
She wished to see me.
"Do not say you found me in bed," I told him.
I dressed in haste and went to her house.
When I entered, I was pale and visibly unwell. She did not ask after my health. She remained silent for a minute or two, as if she had been trying to recollect what she had to say to me.
"Ah! yes," she said at last. "You are aware that our adjutant is dead, and that we want to replace him. My husband, who has a great esteem for you, and feels that M. D---- R---- leaves you perfectly free to make your choice, has taken the singular fancy that you will come, if I ask you myself to do us that pleasure."
She looked at me.
"Is he mistaken?"
I could not answer at once.
"If you would come to us," she continued, "you would have that room."
She pointed to a room adjoining the chamber in which she slept, and so situated that, to see her in every part of her room, I should not even require to place myself at the window.
"M. D. R. would not love you less," she said, "and as he will see you here every day, he will not be likely to forget his interest in your welfare. Now, tell me, will you come or not?"
"I wish I could, madam, but I cannot."
"You cannot? That is singular. Take a seat, and tell me what there is to prevent you, when, in accepting my offer, you are sure to please M. D---- R---- as well as us."
"If I were certain of it, I would accept immediately; but all I have heard from his lips was that he left me free to make a choice."
"Then you are afraid to grieve him, if you come to us?"
"It might be, and for nothing on earth...."
"I am certain of the contrary."
"Will you be so good as to obtain that he says so to me himself?"
"And then you will come?"
"Oh, madam! that very minute!"
The warmth of my answer said too much. I turned my head round so as not to embarrass her.
She asked me to give her mantle, as she was going to church.
I obeyed, and we went out together.
As we were going down the stairs, she placed her ungloved hand upon mine.
It was the first time she had granted me such a favour. That touch passed through me like a spark, and I took it for a good omen.
Then she withdrew her hand.
"Are you feverish?" she asked. "Your hand is burning."
When we left the church, M. D. R.'s carriage happened to pass.
I helped Madame F. into it. The door closed. She was gone.
I hurried to my room to breathe freely and to enjoy all the felicity which filled my soul. I no longer doubted that she loved me.
That bare hand upon mine, that question about my fever, the room she had shown me, the effort she was making to draw me into her house, all spoke too clearly for even fear to misunderstand. And I knew that, in this case, M. D---- R---- was not likely to refuse her anything.
What is love?
I have read plenty of ancient verbiage on that subject, I have read likewise most of what has been said by modern writers, but neither all that has been said, nor what I have thought about it, when I was young and now that I am no longer so, nothing, in fact, can make me agree that love is a trifling vanity.
It is madness, certainly.
But philosophy has no authority over that madness. it is a disease to which man is exposed at all times, no matter at what age, and which cannot be cured, if he is attacked by it in his old age.
Love being sentiment which cannot be explained! God of all nature!--bitter and sweet feeling!
Love!--charming monster which cannot be fathomed! God who, in the midst of all the thorns with which thou plaguest us, strewest so many roses on our path that, without thee, existence and death would be united and blended together!
Two days later, M. D. R. told me to go aboard M. F.'s galley and take his orders. The galley was ready for a voyage of five or six days.
I packed a few things at once and went to my new patron.
F. received me with joy.
We sailed without seeing Madame F., who was not yet visible.
We returned on the sixth day.
After landing, I was preparing to go to M. D. R. for his orders when he came himself. He asked M. F. and me whether we were pleased with each other.
We both answered as he wished.
Then he turned to me.
"Casanova, as you suit each other so well, you may be certain that you will greatly please me by remaining in the service of M. F."
The words delivered me.
I bowed and obeyed respectfully.
Within an hour, I had taken possession of my new quarters.
Madame F. told me how delighted she was to see that great affair ended according to her wishes.
I answered only with a deep reverence.
I found myself like the salamander, in the very fire for which I had so long been sighing.
I was almost always in Madame F.'s presence. I dined often alone with her. I accompanied her on her walks, even when M. D. R. was not with us. From my room I could see her; in her chamber I could speak to her. I was a always reserved and attentive without pretension.
The first night passed without any change.
Yet I was full of hope, I told myself that love had not yet grown strong enough in her to overcome pride. That thought sustained me and kept up my courage. I expected everything from a lucky chance, and I was resolved to seize it the instant it appeared.
After all, it has always been my belief that a lover is lost if he does not catch fortune by the forelock.
But there was one circumstance which annoyed me. In public, she seized every opportunity of treating me with distinction, while, when we were alone, it was exactly the reverse.
Thus, in the eyes of the world, I had all the appearance of a happy lover. In truth, I possessed only the appearance, and I would gladly have exchanged all that public glory for one private kindness. My love for her was disinterested; vanity had no share in my feelings.
One day, when we were alone, she said to me,
"You have enemies, but I silenced them last night."
"They are envious, madam, and they would pity me if they could read the secret pages of my heart. You could easily deliver me from those enemies."
"How can you be an object of pity for them, and how could I deliver you from them?"
"They believe me happy, and I am miserable; you would deliver me from them by ill-treating me in their presence."
She looked at me with curiosity.
"Then you would feel my bad treatment less than the envy of the wicked?"
"Yes, madam, provided your bad treatment in public were compensated by your kindness when we are alone, for there is no vanity in the happiness I feel in belonging to you. Let others pity me, I will be happy on condition that others are mistaken."
She was silent for a moment.
Then she said,
"That's a part that I can never play."
I was often indiscreet enough to stand behind the curtain of my window and watch her when she thought herself perfectly certain that nobody saw her.
But this guilty liberty of mine never proved of great advantage to me.
Whether from suspicion or from habit, she guarded herself with a care that defeated even accident. I saw her in her room, sometimes even in bed, yet my hungry eyes obtained nothing beyond her head.
One day I was in her chamber while her maid was trimming the ends of her long and beautiful hair.
The little locks fell to the floor.
I amused myself by picking them up and placing them, one by one, upon her toilette table. One small lock, however, I slipped into my pocket. I believed she had not noticed it.
I was mistaken.
The moment we were alone, she told me quietly, but rather too seriously,
"Take from your pocket the hair you picked up from the floor."
Thinking she was going too far, and such rigour appearing to me as cruel as it was unjust and absurd, I obeyed, but I took out the lock and threw it upon the toilette table with an air of contempt.
"Sir, you forget yourself."
"No, madam, I do not, for you might have feigned not to have observed such an innocent theft."
"Feigning is tiresome."
"Was such petty larceny a very great crime?"
"No crime, but it was an indication of feelings which you have no right to entertain for me."
"Feelings which you are at liberty not to return, madam, but which hatred or pride can alone forbid my heart to experience. If you had a heart you would not be the victim of either of those two fearful passions, but you have only head, and it must be a very wicked head, judging by the care it takes to heap humiliation upon me."
She looked at me without speaking.
That silence only drove me further.
"You have surprised my secret, madam, you may use it as you think proper, but in the meantime I have learned to know you thoroughly. That knowledge will prove more useful than your discovery, for perhaps it will help me to become wiser."
After this violent tirade I left her.
She did not call me back.
I went to my room, burning with rage, shame, and grief. Hoping sleep might do what reason could not, I undressed and went to bed.
In such moments, a lover hates the woman he loves.
Or rather, he believes he hates her, because his pride has taken the place of his heart and speaks in its name. My own heart, wounded and feverish, distilled nothing but contempt, resentment, and that bitter kind of reasoning which proves only that one is suffering.
Sleep would not come.
When they sent for me at supper, I answered that I was ill.
I lay awake all night, turning from one side to the other, seeing again her cold face, hearing again her command, watching once more that poor lock of hair fall from my hand upon the toilette table.
By morning I was weak and low.
I thought it best to wait and see what illness had taken hold of me. When dinner was announced, I refused it also, and sent word that I remained very unwell.