XVIII
I fancy that I can hear Mme. Hautcastle, whom nothing escapes, even here, demanding some account of the song that I have mentioned in the preceding chapter. For the first time in my life I find myself under the painful necessity of refusing her anything. If I were to insert those verses in the account of my journey, without a doubt I should be taken for their author, and that would make me the butt of many a joke on the necessity of contusions which I would rather be excused. I will, therefore, continue the account of my adventure with my amiable neighbour, for its unexpected termination, as well as the delicacy with which I conducted it, must interest all classes of readers. But before announcing what she replied, and how she received the ingenious compliment I had paid her, I must anticipate an objection of certain people, who fancy themselves more eloquent than I am, and who will ruthlessly condemn me for having commenced the conversation in so trivial a manner, according to their ideas. I will prove to them that, if I had tried to be witty on this important occasion, I should have been acting glaringly in opposition to the rules of prudence and good taste. Every man who begins a conversation with a fine lady with a bon mot, or a compliment, however well he may flatter, permits pretensions to be seen, which should only appear when they are better acquainted. Besides, if he makes a joke, it is clear that he desires to shine, and consequently thinks less of the lady than of himself. Now, ladies wish us to have them ever in our minds; and although they do not always make reflections such as I have described, still they have an exquisite natural taste which tells them that a trivial phrase, uttered only with the idea of beginning the conversation, and to make their better acquaintance, is a thousand times more suitable than a flash of wit, inspired by vanity, and (what is really quite astonishing) is worth more than a poetical dedication.
Further, I maintain (however paradoxical it may seem) that wit and brilliant conversation are not even necessary in the longest lovemaking, where the heart is really engaged; and, in spite of all that people who love but lightly may say about the long pauses which ensue between their ardent professions of love and friendship, the day is always short that is spent with one’s sweetheart, and silence is as interesting as conversation. But, be this as it may, it is quite certain that I thought of nothing better to say on the edge of the roof where I was than the words in question. I had no sooner uttered them than my soul rushed to the drums of my ears to catch the faintest of those tones I was longing to hear. The fair one raised her head to look at me. Her long hair fell down like a veil, and formed a background for her charming face, which reflected the mysterious light of the stars. Already her mouth opened, and the dulcet words were on her lips. But, oh heavens! what was my surprise and terror! A sinister noise was heard. “What are you doing there, Madame, at this hour? Come in,” exclaimed a deep masculine voice from the interior of the room. I was petrified.