The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt is a Webnovel created by Jacques Casanova de Seingalt.
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“Nothing extraordinary in that,” I answered; “honest men generally contrive to be hung far away from their native country; and as a proof of it, sixty Frenchmen have been hung in the course of last year between Naples, Rome, and Venice. Five times twelve are sixty; so you see that it is only a fair exchange.”
The laughter was all on my side, and the fine councillor went away rather crestfallen. One of the gentlemen present at the discussion, finding my answer to his taste, came up to Camille, and asked her in a whisper who I was. We got acquainted at once.
It was M. de Marigni, whom I was delighted to know for the sake of my brother whose arrival in Paris I was expecting every day. M. de Marigni was superintendent of the royal buildings, and the Academy of Painting was under his jurisdiction. I mentioned my brother to him, and he graciously promised to protect him. Another young n.o.bleman, who conversed with me, invited me to visit him. It was the Duke de Matalona.
I told him that I had seen him, then only a child, eight years before in Naples, and that I was under great obligations to his uncle, Don Lelio.
The young duke was delighted, and we became intimate friends.
My brother arrived in Paris in the spring of 1751, and he lodged with me at Madame Quinson’s. He began at once to work with success for private individuals; but his main idea being to compose a picture to be submitted to the judgment of the Academy, I introduced him to M. de Marigni, who received him with great distinction, and encouraged him by a.s.suring him of his protection. He immediately set to work with great diligence.
M. de Morosini had been recalled, and M. de Mocenigo had succeeded him as amba.s.sador of the Republic. M. de Bragadin had recommended me to him, and he tendered a friendly welcome both to me and to my brother, in whose favour he felt interested as a Venetian, and as a young artist seeking to build up a position by his talent.
M. de Mocenigo was of a very pleasant nature; he liked gambling although he was always unlucky at cards; he loved women, and he was not more fortunate with them because he did not know how to manage them. Two years after his arrival in Paris he fell in love with Madame de Colande, and, finding it impossible to win her affections, he killed himself.
Madame la Dauphine was delivered of a prince, the Duke of Burgundy, and the rejoicings indulged in at the birth of that child seem to me incredible now, when I see what the same nation is doing against the king. The people want to be free; it is a n.o.ble ambition, for mankind are not made to be the slaves of one man; but with a nation populous, great, witty, and giddy, what will be the end of that revolution? Time alone can tell us.
The Duke de Matalona procured me the acquaintance of the two princes, Don Marc Antoine and Don Jean Baptiste Borghese, from Rome, who were enjoying themselves in Paris, yet living without display. I had occasion to remark that when those Roman princes were presented at the court of France they were only styled “marquis:” It was the same with the Russian princes, to whom the t.i.tle of prince was refused when they wanted to be presented; they were called “knees,” but they did not mind it, because that word meant prince. The court of France has always been foolishly particular on the question of t.i.tles, and is even now sparing of the t.i.tle of monsieur, although it is common enough everywhere every man who was not t.i.tled was called Sieur. I have remarked that the king never addressed his bishops otherwise than as abbes, although they were generally very proud of their t.i.tles. The king likewise affected to know a n.o.bleman only when his name was inscribed amongst those who served him.
Yet the haughtiness of Louis XV. had been innoculated into him by education; it was not in his nature. When an amba.s.sador presented someone to him, the person thus presented withdrew with the certainty of having been seen by the king, but that was all. Nevertheless, Louis XV.
was very polite, particularly with ladies, even with his mistresses, when in public. Whoever failed in respect towards them in the slightest manner was sure of disgrace, and no king ever possessed to a greater extent the grand royal virtue which is called dissimulation. He kept a secret faithfully, and he was delighted when he knew that no one but himself possessed it.
The Chevalier d’Eon is a proof of this, for the king alone knew and had always known that the chevalier was a woman, and all the long discussions which the false chevalier had with the office for foreign affairs was a comedy which the king allowed to go on, only because it amused him.
Louis XV. was great in all things, and he would have had no faults if flattery had not forced them upon him. But how could he possibly have supposed himself faulty in anything when everyone around him repeated constantly that he was the best of kings? A king, in the opinion of which he was imbued respecting his own person, was a being of a nature by far too superior to ordinary men for him not to have the right to consider himself akin to a G.o.d. Sad destiny of kings! Vile flatterers are constantly doing everything necessary to reduce them below the condition of man.
The Princess of Ardore was delivered about that time of a young prince.
Her husband, the Neapolitan amba.s.sador, entreated Louis XV. to be G.o.d-father to the child; the king consented and presented his G.o.d-son with a regiment; but the mother, who did not like the military career for her son, refused it. The Marshal de Richelieu told me that he had never known the king laugh so heartily as when he heard of that singular refusal.
At the d.u.c.h.ess de Fulvie’s I made the acquaintance of Mdlle. Gaussin, who was called Lolotte. She was the mistress of Lord Albemarle, the English amba.s.sador, a witty and very generous n.o.bleman. One evening he complained of his mistress praising the beauty of the stars which were shining brightly over her head, saying that she ought to know he could not give them to her. If Lord Albemarle had been amba.s.sador to the court of France at the time of the rupture between France and England, he would have arranged all difficulties amicably, and the unfortunate war by which France lost Canada would not have taken place. There is no doubt that the harmony between two nations depends very often upon their respective amba.s.sadors, when there is any danger of a rupture.
As to the n.o.ble lord’s mistress, there was but one opinion respecting her. She was fit in every way to become his wife, and the highest families of France did not think that she needed the t.i.tle of Lady Albemarle to be received with distinction; no lady considered it debasing to sit near her, although she was well known as the mistress of the English lord. She had pa.s.sed from her mother’s arms to those of Lord Albemarle at the age of thirteen, and her conduct was always of the highest respectability. She bore children whom the amba.s.sador acknowledged legally, and she died Countess d’Erouville. I shall have to mention her again in my Memoirs.
I had likewise occasion to become acquainted at the Venetian Emba.s.sy with a lady from Venice, the widow of an English baronet named Wynne.
She was then coming from London with her children, where she had been compelled to go in order to insure them the inheritance of their late father, which they would have lost if they had not declared themselves members of the Church of England. She was on her way back to Venice, much pleased with her journey. She was accompanied by her eldest daughter–a young girl of twelve years, who, notwithstanding her youth, carried on her beautiful face all the signs of perfection.
She is now living in Venice, the widow of Count de Rosenberg, who died in Venice amba.s.sador of the Empress-Queen Maria Theresa. She is surrounded by the brilliant halo of her excellent conduct and of all her social virtues. No one can accuse her of any fault, except that of being poor, but she feels it only because it does not allow her to be as charitable as she might wish.
The reader will see in the next chapter how I managed to embroil myself with the French police.
CHAPTER VIII
My Broil With Parisian Justice–Mdlle. Vesian
The youngest daughter of my landlady, Mdlle. Quinson, a young girl between fifteen and sixteen years of age, was in the habit of often coming to my room without being called. It was not long before I discovered that she was in love with me, and I should have thought myself ridiculous if I had been cruel to a young brunette who was piquant, lively, amiable, and had a most delightful voice.
During the first four or five months nothing but childish trifles took place between us; but one night, coming home very late and finding her fast asleep on my bed, I did not see the necessity of waking her up, and undressing myself I lay down beside her…. She left me at daybreak.
Mimi had not been gone three hours when a milliner came with a charming young girl, to invite herself and her friend to breakfast; I thought the young girl well worth a breakfast, but I was tired and wanted rest, and I begged them both to withdraw. Soon after they had left me, Madame Quinson came with her daughter to make my bed. I put my dressing-gown on, and began to write.
“Ah! the nasty hussies!” exclaims the mother.
“What is the matter, madam?”
“The riddle is clear enough, sir; these sheets are spoiled.”
“I am very sorry, my dear madam, but change them, and the evil will be remedied at once.”
She went out of the room, threatening and grumbling,
“Let them come again, and see if I don’t take care of them!”
Mimi remained alone with me, and I addressed her some reproaches for her imprudence. But she laughed, and answered that Love had sent those women on purpose to protect Innocence! After that, Mimi was no longer under any restraint, she would come and share my bed whenever she had a fancy to do so, unless I sent her back to her own room, and in the morning she always left me in good time. But at the end of four months my beauty informed me that our secret would soon be discovered.
“I am very sorry,” I said to her, “but I cannot help it.”
“We ought to think of something.”
“Well, do so.”
“What can I think of? Well, come what will; the best thing I can do is not to think of it.”
Towards the sixth month she had become so large, that her mother, no longer doubting the truth, got into a violent pa.s.sion, and by dint of blows compelled her to name the father. Mimi said I was the guilty swain, and perhaps it was not an untruth.
With that great discovery Madame Quinson burst into my room in high dudgeon. She threw herself on a chair, and when she had recovered her breath she loaded me with insulting words, and ended by telling me that I must marry her daughter. At this intimation, understanding her object and wishing to cut the matter short, I told her that I was already married in Italy.
“Then why did you come here and get my daughter with child?”
“I can a.s.sure you that I did not mean to do so. Besides, how do you know that I am the father of the child?”
“Mimi says so, and she is certain of it.”
“I congratulate her; but I warn you, madam, that I am ready to swear that I have not any certainty about it.”
“What then?”
“Then nothing. If she is pregnant, she will be confined.”
She went downstairs, uttering curses and threats: the next day I was summoned before the commissary of the district. I obeyed the summons, and found Madame Quinson fully equipped for the battle. The commissary, after the preliminary questions usual in all legal cases, asked me whether I admitted myself guilty towards the girl Quinson of the injury of which the mother, there present personally, complained.
“Monsieur le Commissaire, I beg of you to write word by word the answer which I am going to give you.”
“Very well.”
“I have caused no injury whatever to Mimi, the plaintiff’s daughter, and I refer you to the girl herself, who has always had as much friendship for me as I have had for her.”