All Sacchi's troupe made it only too clear that they wished me to drop her at once and for ever. Their innuendoes directed against myself, and the continuous open gossip which went on, overcame my philosophy at last, and I resolved to suspend my visits altogether without waiting for Lent. Yet, before I exposed her unprotected to the hatred of her comrades, I thought it best to take one final step, which proved, as things turned out, a false one. I went to her sister Marianna, and told her to warn Teodora that I meant at last to leave her. I could not play the part of a fool and go-between. I was not jealous, and had never been jealous of her other admirers; but a man in Gratarol's position, notorious for libertinism, belonging to my own class, and with the eyes{244} of the world upon him, made my position as her friend and protector odious beyond expression. She must choose between giving him up or losing me for ever.
Marianna promised to discharge her mission, and spared no words of reprobation for her sister's conduct. I ought, however, to have reflected that a ballet-girl would be sure to misinterpret my real delicacy, and to depict me as a jealous lover.
Two days later on, both sisters appeared at my house. Teodora began to excuse herself. "My sister tells me that you are angry with me, and I am come to ask the reason why." I replied that I was not angry, but that I wanted to save her from certain ruin. If that was impossible, I meant to provide for my own peace of mind and honour by doing what I had always said I should. She begged me, with exaggerated demonstrations of concern, to give her but one chance, averring that she had certain things she wished to say to me in private. I weakly consented to pay her a visit at her own house, and went there on the following day. There I found her still in bed; and sitting down, I begged her to make a clean breast of everything which concerned Signor Gratarol. She told me frankly that she was not in love with him, and that she had only received a couple of trifling presents at his hands—a little Neapolitan watch-chain and an embroidered satin muff. Upon this, I advised her, if things had not gone further, to write{245} a polite letter to Gratarol, begging him, as a gentleman, to discontinue his attentions. She might return his two presents, as a mark of delicacy. The actress sighed, and said she supposed she must follow my advice. I took her at her word; and added that, since I found her so well disposed to adopt the only right course open to her, I was willing not to withdraw my protection.
I did not inquire whether she actually wrote the letter to Signor Gratarol, but continued to treat her with politeness, trusting to her word and honour. One evening, when she had no engagement at the theatre, I proposed that we should go together to the opera at S. Samuele. She accepted, but showed a singular curiosity to know the row and number of the box. "I will send you the key," I said, "this morning, and you will see where it is placed. If you like to go before me with your husband, I will look in during the evening." I fancied there must be some intrigue hidden under this anxiety about the number of the box; but I said nothing, and did what I had promised.
When the evening came, I went to S. Samuele, and found Mme. Ricci with her husband in the box. His duties at the other theatre obliged him to retire, and I was left alone with Teodora. Scarcely had I taken my seat, when I heard the door of the next box open, and some one entered, who was greeted by the actress with charming airs of coquetry and winning{246} grace. I had my shoulders turned to the person, but I divined who it was. The Ricci had informed Gratarol that she was going with me to S. Samuele, and had given him the number of our box. Pretending to notice him by accident, I turned my head round, bowed, and begged him to excuse me for not having yet returned his visit. He overwhelmed me, as usual, with a shower of those compliments which won for him the fame of eloquence.
"This then," said I to myself, "is the woman's way of writing notes at my advice!" However, I attended her back to her house without making any comment on what had happened.
The last day of this most tedious Carnival at length arrived. It was the custom for the leading members of Sacchi's troupe, together with a numerous company of friends, to celebrate the evening with a supper at some inn. I had always accompanied Teodora Ricci on these occasions; and I now determined to put the final stroke to our friendship by acting as usual. After a very festive supper, the whole party adjourned to the opera at S. Samuele. The performance began at midnight, and several boxes had been engaged beforehand. It chanced that I found myself alone in one of them with Mme. Ricci. Thereupon, seeing that the Carnival was over, and the moment of my emancipation had arrived, I opened my mind to the young woman, and informed her that my patience was exhausted. She tried to turn the matter off with a{247} jest; her liaison with Gratarol had been a mere Carnival caprice, which would end with the Carnival. (As if that made any difference to me!) I replied with firmness that it was now too late. She had thrown away the fruits of my benefits conferred on her through five long years, and had repaid them by exposing me to shame and insult. I forgave her and left her at liberty; but abode by my decision to withdraw from her friendship.
"What!" said she, "shall I not be your gossip[58] any more?" "Please to forget that title," I replied: "a good woman does not try to turn her gossip into a simpleton or go-between. I shall not become your enemy, and have no petty thirst for vengeance. If I were wise, I should cut my old connection with the troupe whom I have protected for twenty years. That would secure me against further annoyances and tittle-tattle. But I do not mean to take this step. And you may be very grateful to me; for were I to leave them, they would ascribe the loss of their great champion to you alone." "Oh, what will ever happen to me?" she exclaimed with an air of tragic desperation. "Nothing," I added laughing, "except what you have sought and brought about."
When the opera was over, I attended her home, and standing in the doorway, repeated that this was the last time she would be troubled with my company.{248} "Do you not mean then to visit me any more?" cried she. "You certainly will not be exposed to that disturbance," I replied. "Oh, we shall see you here, we shall see you!" she answered with a cheerful air of security. I could not help laughing at her conceit. "So you persist in looking on me as a hopeless victim of your charms! If I do come to visit you, you will see me, certes!" "But I shall come to you," she added. "I hope that you will never give yourself the trouble," said I; and with these final words I turned my back and walked away.
So ended the open and ingenuous friendship which I had carried on for five years with this woman.