She lived in Soho Square, almost facing the house of the Venetian ambassador. When I arrived I followed the instructions I had received in her last letter. I left her son in the carriage, and sent up my name, expecting she would fly to meet me; but the porter told me to wait, and in a few minutes a servant in grand livery brought me a note in which Madame Cornelis asked me to get down at the house to which her servant would conduct me. I thought this rather strange behaviour, but still she might have her reasons for acting in this manner, so I did not let my indignation appear. When we got to the house, a fat woman named Rancour, and two servants, welcomed us, or rather welcomed my young friend; for the lady embraced him, told him how glad she was to see him, and did not appear to be aware of my existence.
Our trunks were taken in, and Madame Rancour having ascertained which belonged to Cornelis, had them placed in a fine suite of three rooms, and said, pointing out to him the apartment and the two servants, "This apartment and the two servants are for you, and I, too, am your most humble servant."
Clairmont told me that he had put my things in a room which communicated with Cornelis's. I went to inspect it, and saw djrectly that I was being treated as if I were a person of no consequence.
The storm of anger was gathering, but wonderful to relate, I subdued myself, and did not say a word.
"Where is your room?" I said to Clairmont.
"Near the roof, and I am to share it with one of those two louts you saw."
The worthy Clairmont, who knew my disposition, was surprised at the calm with which I said,--
"Take your trunk there."
"Shall I open yours?"
"No. We will see what can be done to-morrow."
I still kept on my mask, and returned to the room of the young gentleman who seemed to be considered as my master. I found him listening with a foolish stare to Madame Rancour, who was telling him of the splendid position his mother occupied, her great enterprise, her immense credit, the splendid house she had built, her thirty-
three servants, her two secretaries, her six horses, her country house, etc., etc.
"How is my sister Sophie?" said the young gentleman.
"Her name is Sophie, is it? She is only known as Miss Cornelis. She is a beauty, a perfect prodigy, she plays at sight on several instruments, dances like Terpsichore, speaks English, French, and Italian equally well--in a word, she is really wonderful. She has a governess and a maid. Unfortunately, she is rather short for her age; she is eight."
She was ten, but as Madame Rancour was not speaking to me I refrained from interrupting her.
My lord Cornelis, who felt very tired, asked at what hour they were to sup.
"At ten o'clock and not before," said the duenna, "for Madame Cornelis is always engaged till then. She is always with her lawyer, on account of an important law-suit she has against Sir Frederick Fermer."
I could see that I should learn nothing worth learning by listening to the woman's gossip, so I took my hat and cane and went for a walk in the immense city, taking care not to lose my way.
It was seven o'clock when I went out, and a quarter of an hour after, seeing a number of people in a coffeehouse, I entered it. It was the most notorious place in London, the resort of all the rascally Italians in town. I had heard of it at Lyons, and had taken a firm resolve never to set foot in it, but almighty chance made me go there unknown to myself. But it was my only visit.
I sat down by myself and called for a glass of lemonade, and before long a man came and sat by me to profit by the light. He had a printed paper in his hand, and I could see that the words were Italian. He had a pencil with which he scratched out some words and letters, writing the corrections in the margin. Idle curiosity made me follow him in his work, and I noticed him correcting the word 'ancora', putting in an 'h' in the margin. I was irritated by this barbarous spelling, and told him that for four centuries 'ancora' had been spelt without an 'h'.
"Quite so," said he, "but I am quoting from Boccaccio, and one should be exact in quotations."
"I apologize, sir; I see you are a man of letters."
"Well, in a small way. My name is Martinelli."
"Then you are in a great way indeed. I know you by repute, and if I
am not mistaken you are a relation of Calsabigi, who has spoken of you to me. I have read some of your satires."
"May I ask to whom I have the honour of speaking?"
"My name is Seingalt. Have you finished your edition of the Decameron?"
"I am still at work on it, and trying to increase the number of my subscribers."
"If you will be so kind I should be glad to be of the number."
"You do me honour."
He gave me a ticket, and seeing that it was only for a guinea I took four, and telling him I hoped to see him again at the same coffee-
house, the name of which I asked him, he told it me, evidently astonished at my ignorance; but his surprise vanished when I informed him that I had only been in London for an hour, and that it was my first visit to the great city.
"You will experience some trouble in finding your way back," said he, "allow me to accompany you."
When we had got out he gave me to understand that chance had led me to the "Orange Coffee House," the most disreputable house in London.
"But you go there."
"Yes, but I can say with Juvenal:
"'Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator.'
"The rogues can't hurt me; I know them and they know me; we never trouble each other."
"You have been a long time in London, I suppose."
"Five years."
"I presume you know a good many people."
"Yes, but I seldom wait on anyone but Lord Spencer. I am occupied with literary work and live all by myself. I don't make much, but enough to live on. I live in furnished apartments, and have twelve shirts and the clothes you see on my back, and that is enough for my happiness.
"'Nec ultra deos lacesso.'"
I was pleased with this honest man, who spoke Italian with the most exquisite correctness.
