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 slightest inconvenience, though my carriage is only seated for two; however, my sweetheart can sit on our knees.”

I accepted his offer with pleasure, and we seated ourselves in the carriage, the count on my left hand and Babet on both our knees.

Burning with amorous passion I thought I would take the opportunity, and, to lose no time, as the coachman was driving fast, I took her hand and pressed it softly.  The pressure was returned.  Joy!  I carried the hand to my lips, and covered it with affectionate though noiseless kisses.  Longing to convince her of the ardour of my passion, and thinking that her hand would not refuse to do me a sweet service, I . . . but just at critical moment,

“I am really very much obliged to you, my dear fellow,” said the Count de la Tour d’Auvergne, “for a piece of politeness thoroughly Italian, of which, however, I do not feel worthy; at least, I hope it’s meant as politeness and not as a sign of contempt.”

At these dreadful words I stretched out my hand and felt the sleeve of his coat.  Presence of mind was no good in a situation like this, when his words were followed by a peal of loud laughter which would have confounded the hardiest spirit.  As for me, I could neither join in his laughter nor deny his accusation; the situation was a fearful one, or would have been if the friendly shades of night had not covered my confusion.  Babet did her best to find out from the count why he laughed so much, but he could not tell her for laughing, for which I gave thanks with all my heart.  At last the carriage stopped at my house, and as soon as my servant had opened the door of my carriage I got down as fast as I could, and wished them good night—­a compliment which Tour d’Auvergne returned with fresh peals of laughter.  I entered my house in a state of stupefaction, and half an hour elapsed before I, too, began to laugh at the adventure.  What vexed me most was the expectation of having malicious jests passed upon me, for I had not the least right to reckon on the count’s discretion.  However, I had enough sense to determine to join in the laughter if I could, and if not, to take it well, for this is, and always will be, the best way to get the laughers on one’s own side at Paris.