Italian play, with whom I had
fallen in love at Fontainebleu seven years ago, was one of those of whom
I was most fond, liking the society at her pretty little house, where she
lived with the Count d'Eigreville, who was a friend of mine, and fond of
my company. He was a brother of the Marquis de Gamache and of the
Countess du Rumain, and was a fine young fellow of an excellent
disposition. He was never so well pleased as when he saw his mistress
surrounded by people--a taste which is rarely found, but which is very
convenient, and the sign of a temperament not afflicted by jealousy.
Camille had no other lovers--an astonishing thing in an actress of the
kind, but being full of tact and wit she drove none of her admirers to
despair. She was neither over sparing nor over generous in the
distribution of her favours, and knew how to make the whole town rave
about her without fearing the results of indiscretion or sorrows of being
abandoned.

The gentleman of whom, after her lover, she took most notice, was the
Count de la Tour d'Auvergne, a nobleman of an old family, who idolized
her, and, not being rich enough to possess her entirely, had to be
content with what she gave him. Camille had given him a young girl, for
whose keep she paid, who lived with Tour d'Auvergne in furnished
apartments in the Rue de Taranne, and whom he said he loved as one loves
a portrait, because she came from Camille. The count often took her with
him to Camille's to supper. She was fifteen, simple in her manners, and
quite devoid of ambition. She told her lover that she would never forgive
him an act of infidelity except with Camille, to whom she felt bound to
yield all since to her she owed all.

I became so much in love with her that I often went to Camille's solely
to see her and to enjoy those artless speeches with which she delighted
the company. I strove as best I could to conceal my flame, but often I
found myself looking quite sad at the thought of the impossibility of my
love being crowned with success. If I had let my passion be suspected I
should have been laughed at, and should have made myself a mark for the
pitiless sarcasms of Camille. However, I got my cure in the following
ridiculous manner:--

Camille lived at the Barriere Blanche, and on leaving her house, one
rainy evening, I sought in vain for a coach to take me home.

"My dear Casanova," said Tour d'Auvergne, "I can drop you at your own
door without giving myself the sligh