The Confessions

  My disturbance of mind became so strong that, being unable to satisfy my desires, I excited them by the most extravagant behaviour. I haunted dark alleys and lonely spots where I could expose myself to women from afar off in the condition in which I should have liked to be in their company. What they saw was nothing obscene, I was far from thinking of that; it was ridiculous. The absurd pleasure I got from displaying myself before their eyes is quite indescribable. There was only one step for me still to make to achieve the experience I desired, and I have no doubt that some bold girl would have afforded me the amusement, as she passed, if I had possessed the courage to wait. But this folly led to a catastrophe almost equally comical, but less entertaining to me.

  One day I took up my position in the corner of a courtyard, in which was a well where the girls of the house often came to draw water. In this corner there were a few steps that led to some cellars by several entrances. In the dark I explored these subterranean passages and, finding them long and pitch black, came to the conclusion that they went on for ever and that if I were seen and surprised I should find a safe hiding-place there. Thus emboldened, I offered the girls who came to the well a sight that was laughable rather than seductive. The more sensible pretended that they had seen nothing. Others started laughing. Others considered themselves insulted and made a fuss. I rushed into my retreat, and was followed. I heard the voice of a man, which I had not reckoned with and which alarmed me. I plunged deeper into the passages, at the risk of losing myself; noise, voices, and that man’s voice followed me still. I had counted on the darkness, I saw light. I shuddered and plunged on. I was stopped by a wall and could go no further. There I must await my fate. In a moment I was caught and seized by a big man with a big moustache, a big hat, and a big sword, escorted by four or five women each armed with a broom handle. Among them I saw the little wretch who had given me away, and who no doubt wanted to see me face to face.

  The man with the sword took hold of my arm and asked me roughly what I was doing there. As can be imagined, I had no answer ready. I recovered myself however and, racking my brains at this critical moment, produced a romantic excuse which was accepted. I begged him in the humblest of tones to take pity on my youth and condition, claiming to be a young stranger of noble birth and to be suffering from a mental derangement. I said that I had run away from my father’s house because they wanted to shut me up, and that if he gave me away I should be lost, but if he were so good as to let me go I might one day repay his kindness. Unlikely though it seemed, my appearance and my speech produced an effect; the terrible man was touched. He gave me a brief scolding, and quietly let me go without asking me any more questions. From the way that the girl and the old women scowled at me I concluded that the man I had been so frightened of had been very useful to me, and that, left to them alone, I should not have got off so cheaply. I heard them muttering something or other that I hardly paid attention to. For so long as the man and his sword did not interfere I was quite confident that, being both nimble and vigorous, I could escape from them and their sticks.

  Some days later when walking in the street with a young abbé who lived near me I ran into the man with the sword. He recognized me and remarked in mocking imitation of my voice: ‘I am a prince. I am a prince and a coward. But don’t let his Highness come back again.’ I said no more but sneaked away with my head down, thanking him in my heart for his discretion. These confounded old women, I supposed, had made him ashamed of his credulity. Be that as it may, though he was a Piedmontese he was a good man and I never think of him without a feeling of gratitude. For the story was so ridiculous that anyone else in his place would have put me to shame, if only in order to raise a laugh. Though this incident did not have the consequences I might have feared it did not fail to make me cautious for a long time.

  My stay with Mme de Vercellis had procured me several acquaintances, whom I cultivated in the hope that they would be useful to me. One of them was a Savoyard abbé, M. Gaime by name, tutor to the children of the Count de Mellarède. Him I sometimes went to see. He was still young and did not go much into, society, but he was a man of sound sense, of intelligence and integrity. Indeed he was one of the most honest men I have ever met. He was of no help to me in the matter that I visited him for. He had not sufficient influence to get me a situation. Yet I gained more precious advantages from him, which have benefited me for the whole of my life. He gave me lessons in a sound morality and in the principles of common sense. In my succession of desires and fancies I had always struck too high or too low, always played either Achilles or Thersites; now hero, now scoundrel. M. Gaime took pains to put me in my place, to make me see myself as I was, neither sparing me nor discouraging me. He talked to me most frankly about my nature and my talents, saying however that he saw obstacles arising from them that might prevent my making good use of them. In his opinion, therefore, I should treat them not as steps by which to climb to. fortune, but as a means of dispensing with fortune. He drew me a faithful picture of human life, of which I had only false ideas, and showed me how, when fate is adverse, a wise man can always strive for happiness and sail against the wind to attain it. He showed me that there is no true happiness without wisdom, and that wisdom is to be found in all conditions of life. He greatly diminished my admiration for worldly greatness by proving to me that those men who control others are neither wiser nor happier than they. And he said a thing too which has often come back into my mind: that if every man could read the hearts of others there would be more men anxious to descend than to rise in life. The truth of that reflection is striking, and there is no exaggeration about it. By making me content to remain where I was, it has been most useful to me throughout my life. He gave me my first true ideas of honour, which my exaggerative genius had only grasped in its extreme forms. He made me see that lofty virtues and enthusiasms are of little use in society; that in riding too high a man risks a fall; that a succession of small duties always faithfully done demands no less than do heroic actions; that a man derives greater advantage from them to his honour and virtue, and that it is infinitely better always to have people’s respect than sometimes to have their admiration.

  In order to define the duties of man it was necessary to go back to their principles. Moreover, the step that I had just taken and of which my present state was the consequence led us to talk of religion. It will already be clear that good M. Gaime is, to a great extent at least, the original of the Savoyard Vicar. Prudence, however, compelled him to speak with more reserve than did my Vicar. On certain points therefore his explanations were less frank. But for the rest his precepts, his sentiments, his opinions, and everything down to his advice to return to my own country, were exactly the same as those I have since given to the public. So I will not enlarge upon conversations whose substance anyone can read in my book, but merely say that though his lessons had at first no effect upon me for all their wisdom, they planted a seed of virtue and religion in my heart which has never been choked, and which only required the tending of a more beloved hand to bear fruit.

  Although at that time my conversion was not very stable, I nevertheless felt moved. Far from growing tired of his conversations I came to value them for their clarity, their simplicity, and for a certain warmth of heart of which I felt they were full. I have an affectionate nature, and I have always been less attached to people for their actual kindnesses than for those they have intended to do me. And that is a subject upon which my instinct seldom deceives me. So I conceived a real affection for M. Gaime. I was, so to speak, his second pupil, and for the moment this had for me the inestimable advantage of deflecting me from the path to vice down which my state of idleness was drawing me.

  One day I was most unexpectedly sent for by Count de la Roque. I had visited him so often without seeing him that I had grown tired of calling and went no more. I supposed that he had forgotten me, or had unpleasant memories of me. I was wrong. He had more than once noticed the pleasure with which I did my duties for his au
nt. He had even spoken to her on the subject, and he spoke of it again to me when I had quite forgotten all about it. He received me kindly and said that, far from putting me off with idle promises, he had been trying to find me a place. Now he had succeeded, and was setting me on the way to make something of myself; the rest was up to me. The family with whom he placed me was an important and respected one, and no other patron was necessary to help me on. At first I should be treated as a simple servant, just as in my last post. But I could be confident that, should they judge me by my behaviour and disposition to deserve a better position, they would not be inclined to leave me where I was. The end of this speech cruelly belied the brilliant hopes inspired in me by its opening. ‘What, always a lackey!’ I reflected in a mood of bitterness which my confidence soon dispelled. I felt too ill-fitted for such a position to fear that I should be left in it long.

  He took me to the Count de Gouvon, first equerry to the Queen and head of the illustrious house of Solar. This venerable old gentleman’s dignified air made his very kind reception even more touching. He questioned me with interest and I replied with sincerity. He said to the Count de la Roque that I had pleasant features, which gave promise of intelligence; that indeed he thought I was not lacking in that respect, but that was not everything, and the rest remained to be seen. Then he turned to me and said: ‘In almost everything, my child, the beginnings are hard. For you they will not be too hard, however. Be good and try to please everyone here. That for the present is your only duty. For the rest, have no fear, we intend to take care of you.’ Immediately afterwards he took me to the Marchioness de Breil, his stepdaughter, and introduced me to her. Then he took me to the Abbé de Gouvon, his son. This beginning seemed to me a good augury. I had enough experience by now to know that people do not receive a new lackey with all that ceremony. In fact, I was not treated as one. I ate at the steward’s table, they gave me no livery, and when the Count de Favria, an empty-headed young man, wanted to make me get up behind his carriage, his grandfather forbade my riding behind anyone’s coach or attending anyone out of doors. I served at table, however, and indoors I acted more or less as a lackey. But I did so with very considerable freedom, for I was not specifically appointed to anyone’s service. Except for taking down a few letters and cutting out some pictures for the Count de Favria, I was almost master of my own time throughout the day. I was not conscious of being on my trial, but the test was a very vigorous one indeed, and somewhat unkind. For such lack of occupation might very well have led me into vices that I should never otherwise have contracted.

  But fortunately this did not happen. M. Gaime’s lessons had made an emotional impression upon me. In fact they so seized on my imagination that I sometimes stole out to go and hear them over again. No one, I think, who saw me slip away so furtively had any idea where I was going. Nothing could have been sounder than the advice which he gave me concerning my behaviour. I started off admirably. I charmed everybody by my thoroughness, my obedience and my zeal. The Abbé Gaime had wisely warned me to moderate my initial fervour, in case it should later relax and this falling-off be noticed. ‘The way you begin,’ he said, ‘sets the standard for what will be asked of you. Manage, if you can, to do even more as time goes on, but be careful never to do less.’

  Since no one had really troubled to assess my small talents, and since I was not credited with more than those I had by nature, it did not seem that they intended to make any proper use of me, despite what the Count de Gouvon had told me. M. Gouvon’s son, the Marquis de Breil, was then ambassador in Vienna. Certain events took place at Court which had their effect on the family, and for some weeks there was a general excitement which hardly gave them a moment to think of me. Nevertheless, during that time I relaxed very little. There was one thing, however, which did me both good and harm, good by banishing all external distractions, harm by making me somewhat more careless in my duties.

  Mlle de Breil was a well-formed young lady of more or less my own age and rather handsome. She was extremely fair with jet black hair and, though a brunette, had that sweet expression which one finds in blondes, and which my heart has never been able to resist. Court dress, so flattering to the young, brought out her pretty figure, revealed her breast and shoulders, and made her complexion still more dazzling, since at that time mourning was being worn. It may be observed that it is not a servant’s business to observe such things. I was at fault, no doubt. But still I did observe them, and I was not the only one to do so. The steward and the valets discussed her sometimes over table with a crudity which I found deeply distressing. My head, however, was not so turned as to make me absolutely in love with her. I did not forget myself, I kept in my place, and even my desires remained under control. I loved to see Mlle de Breil, to hear her say a few words that displayed her wit, her good sense, and her modesty. My ambition was limited to the pleasure of serving her, and went no further. At table I was always on the look-out for chances of asserting my rights. If her footman left her chair for a moment I took up my place there immediately. At other times I stood facing her, following her eyes to see what she might want and watching for the moment when I could change her plate. What would I not have done for her to give me a single order, a single glance, a single word! But no. To my mortification I meant nothing to her. She did not even notice that I was there. Her brother, however, did sometimes speak to me at table. On one occasion, indeed, when he said something to me that was pretty uncivil, I gave him so neat and smart an answer that she noticed it and threw me a glance. That glance was short enough, but it threw me into transports of delight. The next day I had the opportunity of earning another, and availed myself of it. They were giving a grand dinner, and on that occasion, to my great astonishment I saw the steward for the first time waiting with his hat on his head and his sword at his side. The conversation chanced to turn upon the motto of the house of Solar, which was embroidered on the tapestries around the coats of arms: ‘Tel fiert qui ne tue pas.’ As the Piedmontese are not as a rule perfect masters of French, someone discovered a spelling mistake in this motto, and said that the word fiert did not require a t.

  The old Count de Gouvon was about to reply when, glancing at me, he saw that I was smiling, though I dared not say anything, and ordered me to speak. Whereupon I said that I did not consider the t superfluous, that fiert was an old French word which did not come from ferus, fierce, threatening, but from the verb ferit, he strikes, he wounds; so that the meaning of the motto appeared to me to be not ‘some threaten’ but ‘some strike and do not kill.’

  They all looked at me and exchanged glances in silence. Never in my life had I seen such astonishment. But what flattered me more was to see a look of pleasure on Mlle de Breil’s face. That haughty young lady condescended to throw me a second glance, every bit as precious as the first. Then, turning towards her grandfather, she seemed to wait almost impatiently for him to give me the praise which was my due. Indeed he did compliment me so generously and whole-heartedly, and with such an air of pleasure, that the whole table hastened to join in the chorus. That moment was short, but it was in every respect delightful. It was one of those rare moments that put things back in their proper perspective, repair the slights on true merit and avenge the outrages of fortune. Some minutes later Mlle de Breil lifted her eyes to me again and asked me in a shy but friendly voice to give her something to drink. Of course I did not keep her waiting. But when I came to her I was seized with such a trembling that I overfilled her glass, spilling some water on her plate, and over her. Her brother stupidly asked me why I was trembling. This question did not help to put me at my ease, and Mlle de Breil blushed to the whites of her eyes.

  Here the romance ended, with the same ill-fortune as my affair with Mme Basile and others throughout my life; from which it will be observed that I am never lucky in the conclusion of my amours. I haunted Mme de Breil’s ante-room, but to no purpose. I received not one further mark of attention from her daughter. She came in and went out without lo
oking at me, and I scarcely dared to glance at her. I was so stupid and awkward indeed that one day when she had dropped her glove in passing, instead of dashing to recover that object, which I should have loved to smother with kisses, I had not the courage to move, but left it to be picked up by a great lout of a valet whom I would gladly have throttled. Then, to complete my discomfiture, I discovered that I had not the good fortune to please Mme de Breil. Not only did she never give me orders, but she never accepted my services; and twice when she found me in her antechamber she asked me very coldly whether I had nothing to do. I had to renounce that dear ante-chamber. At first I regretted it, but distractions intervened, and soon I never gave the matter a thought.