After breakfast we walked in the garden, and once I had Lucrezia to myself I could not help reproaching her gently for having so nearly thrown her sister into my arms.
"Do not reproach me," she said, "when I deserve praise. I have brought light into the darkness of my charming sister's soul; I have initiated her in the sweetest of mysteries, and now, instead of pitying me, she must envy me. Far from having hatred for you, she must love you dearly, and as I am so unhappy as to have to part from you very soon, my beloved, I leave her to you; she will replace me."
"Ah, Lucrezia! how can I love her?"
"Is she not a charming girl?"
"No doubt of it; but my adoration for you is a shield against any other love. Besides Don Francisco must, of course, entirely monopolize her, and I do not wish to cause coolness between them, or to ruin the peace of their home. I am certain your sister is not like you, and I would bet that, even now, she upbraids herself for having given way to the ardour of her temperament:"
"Most likely; but, dearest, I am sorry to say my husband expects to obtain judgment in the course of this week, and then the short instants of happiness will forever be lost to me."
The news saddened me.
At breakfast, to turn the talk elsewhere, I showed Don Francisco as much attention as I could and promised him a nuptial song for his wedding day, which had been fixed for the beginning of January.
We returned to Rome. For the three hours she sat beside me in my vis-à-vis, Lucrezia had no cause to think my ardour diminished in the least.
But when we reached the city, I was rather tired and went straight to the palace.
Lucrezia had judged correctly.
Her husband obtained his sentence three or four days later, and he came to tell me that they would leave two days after that.
He spoke to me with much warmth, and by his invitation I spent the last two evenings with Lucrezia, though always in the presence of the family.
On the day of her departure, wishing to give her a pleasant surprise, I left Rome before them and waited where I thought they would stop for the night.
But the advocate, detained by several engagements, remained in Rome, and they did not arrive until the next day at dinner.
We dined together, we exchanged a sad, painful farewell, and they continued their journey while I returned to Rome.
After the departure of that charming woman, I found myself in a solitude very natural to a young man whose heart is not full with hope.
I spent whole days in my room, making extracts from the French letters written by the Cardinal.
His eminence was kind enough to tell me that my extracts were judiciously made, but he added that I must not work so hard. The beautiful marchioness was present when he paid me that compliment.
Since my second visit to her, I had not appeared at her house. She was therefore somewhat cold to me, and, pleased at the chance of showing her displeasure, she remarked to his eminence that work was perhaps my consolation for the great void left by Donna Lucrezia's departure.
"I candidly confess, madam," I answered, "that I have felt her loss deeply. She was kind and generous; above all, she was indulgent when I did not call often upon her. My friendship for her was innocent."
"I have no doubt of it," she replied, "although your ode was the work of a poet deeply in love."
"Oh!" said the kindly cardinal, "a poet cannot possibly write without professing to be in love."
"But," replied the marchioness, "if the poet is really in love, he has no need of professing a feeling which he possesses."
As she spoke, the marchioness took a paper from her pocket and offered it to his eminence.
"This is the ode," she said, "it does great honour to the poet, for it is admitted to be a masterpiece by all the literati in Rome, and Donna Lucrezia knows it by heart."
The cardinal read it, returned it with a smile, and said that, as he had no taste for Italian poetry, she must give him the pleasure of translating it into French rhyme if she wished him to admire it.
"I only write French prose," answered the marchioness, "and a prose translation destroys half the beauty of poetry. I am satisfied with writing occasionally a little Italian poetry without any pretension to poetical fame."
Those words were accompanied by a very significant glance in my direction.
"I should consider myself fortunate, madam, if I could obtain the happiness of admiring some of your poetry."
"Here is a sonnet of her ladyship's," said Cardinal S. C.
I took it respectfully. I was preparing to read it when the amiable marchioness told me to put it in my pocket and return it to the cardinal the next day, since, in her opinion, the sonnet was not worth so much trouble.
"If you should happen to go out in the morning," said Cardinal S. C., "you could bring it back, and dine with me."
Cardinal Aquaviva immediately answered for me: "He will be sure to go out purposely."
With a deep reverence, which expressed my thanks, I left the room quietly and returned to my apartment, very impatient to read the sonnet.
Before satisfying my curiosity, I could not help reflecting on the situation. I began to think myself somebody since the gigantic stride I had made this evening at the cardinal's assembly.
The marchioness had shown her interest in me so openly that she had almost compromised herself under the protection of her own rank.
Yet who would have found fault with it? I was only a young abbé, a man of no consequence, scarcely a person to be patronised in earnest.
And yet that was precisely what made the thing possible.
She was one of those women who bestow favours most willingly on those who, feeling themselves unworthy of it, dared not shew any pretensions to her patronage.
I had shown enough modesty for the whole room to see it, and the marchioness would certainly have taken me for a fool had she suspected me of imagining that she felt the least inclination toward me.
Such vanity was not in my nature.
Besides, her cardinal had invited me to dinner.
Would he have done so had he suspected that the beautiful marchioness had spoken to me with more than ordinary civility?
Certainly not.
He had invited me because he had understood from the very words of the lady, that I was just the sort of person with whom they could converse for a few hours without any risk; to be sure, without any risk whatever.
Ah, Master Casanova, did you truly believe it?
Well, why should I put on a mask before my readers?
They may accuse me of vanity if they please, but I was convinced that I had made a conquest of the marchioness.
She had taken the first, most difficult, and most important step.
Without that, I should never have presumed to approach her, not even under the most cautious and respectable appearance of homage. I should never have dreamed of winning her at all.
It was only that evening that I began to think she might replace Lucrezia.
She was beautiful, young, full of wit and talent; she was fond of literary pursuits, and very powerful in Rome; what more was necessary?
Yet I thought it would be good policy to appear ignorant of her inclination for me, and to let her suppose from the very next day that I was in love with her, but that my love appeared to me hopeless.
I knew that such a plan was infallible, because it saved her dignity.
I even believed Father Georgi himself would have approved it, and I noted with pleasure that Cardinal Acquaviva had shown great satisfaction at Cardinal S. C.'s invitation, an honour he had not yet thought fit to grant me in person.
There was promise in this affair, and I was not so modest as to fail to see it.
I read the marchioness's sonnet and found it smooth, graceful, and well turned. It praised the King of Prussia for his masterly seizure of Silesia.
While I copied it out, another thought came to me. Why should not Silesia herself speak? Why should she not answer, and lament that Love, who had inspired the marchioness's verse, should celebrate the triumph of a conqueror who was the sworn enemy of Love?
It is impossible for a man accustomed to write poetry to abstain when a happy subject smiles upon his delighted imagination.
If he attempted to smother the poetical flame running through his veins it would consume him.
I composed my sonnet, keeping the same rhymes as in the original, and, well pleased with my muse, I went to bed.
The next morning the Abbé Gama came in just as I had finished recopying it.
He proposed to breakfast with me and congratulated me on the honour of Cardinal S. C.'s invitation.
"But be prudent," he added, "for his eminence has the reputation of being jealous."
I thanked him for his friendly advice and assured him that I had nothing to fear, since I felt not the least inclination for the handsome marchioness.