On the day fixed for the rehearsal they came without the Lindane and
Murray. They were not well, but Rossi said they would not fail us
eventually. I took the part of Murray, and asked Rosalie to be the
Lindane.
"I don't read Italian well enough," she whispered, "and I don't wish to have the actors laughing at me; but Veronique could do it."
"Ask if she will read the part."
However, Veronique said that she could repeat it by heart.
"All the better," said I to her, laughing internally, as I thought of Soleure, for I saw that I should thus be obliged to make love to the girl to whom I had not spoken for the fortnight she had been with us. I had not even had a good look at her face. I was so afraid of Rosalie (whom I loved better every day) taking fright.
What I had feared happened. When I took Veronique's hand, and said, "Si, bella Lindana, debbe adorarvi!" everybody clapped, because I gave the words their proper expression; but glancing at Rosalie I saw a shadow on her face, and I was angry at not having controlled myself better. Nevertheless, I could not help feeling amazed at the way Veronique played the part. When I told her that I adored her she blushed up to her eyes; she could not have played the love-sick girl better.
We fixed a day for the dress-rehearsal at the theatre, and the company announced the first night a week in advance to excite public curiosity. The bills ran:
"We shall give Voltaire's Ecossaise, translated by an anonymous author: no prompter will be present."
I cannot give the reader any idea of the trouble I had to quiet Rosalie. She refused to be comforted; wept incessantly, and touched my heart by gentle reproaches.
"You love Veronique," said she, "and you only translated that piece to have an opportunity of declaring your love."