When we got to Vaucluse I let Dolci lead; he had been there a hundred times, and his merit was enhanced in my eyes by the fact that he was a lover of the lover of Laura.  We left the carriage at Apt, and wended our way to the fountain which was honoured that day with a numerous throng of pilgrims.  The stream pours forth from a vast cavern, the handiwork of nature, inimitable by man.  It is situated at the foot of a rock with a sheer descent of more than a hundred feet.  The cavern is hardly half as high, and the water pours forth from it in such abundance that it deserves the name of river at its source.  It is the Sorgue which falls into the Rhone near Avignon.  There is no other stream as pure and clear, for the rocks over which it flows harbour no deposits of any kind.  Those who dislike it on account of its apparent blackness should remember that the extreme darkness of the cavern gives it that gloomy tinge.

     Chiare fresche a dolce aque
     Ove le belle membra
     Pose colei the sola a me pay donna.

I wished to ascend to that part of the rock where Petrarch’s house stood.  I gazed on the remains with tears in my eyes, like Leo Allatius at Homer’s grave.  Sixteen years later I slept at Arqua, where Petrarch died, and his house still remains.  The likeness between the two situations was astonishing, for from Petrarch’s study at Arqua a rock can be seen similar to that which may be viewed at Vaucluse; this was the residence of Madonna Laura.

“Let us go there,” said I, “it is not far off.”

I will not endeavour to delineate my feelings as I contemplated the ruins of the house where dwelt the lady whom the amorous Petrarch immortalised in his verse—­verse made to move a heart of stone: 

     “Morte bella parea nel suo bel viso”

I threw myself with arms outstretched upon the ground as if I would embrace the very stones.  I kissed them, I watered them with my tears, I strove to breathe the holy breath they once contained.  I begged Madame Stuard’s pardon for having left her arm to do homage to the spirit of a woman who had quickened the profoundest soul that ever lived.

I say soul advisedly, for after all the body and the senses had nothing to do with the connection.

“Four hundred years have past and gone,” said I to the statue of a woman who gazed at me in astonishment, “since Laura de Sade walked here; perhaps she was not as handsome as you, but she was lively, kindly, polite, and good of heart.  May this air which she breathed and which you breathe now kindle in you the spark of fire divine; that fire that coursed through her veins, and made her heart beat and her bosom swell.  Then you would win the worship of all worthy men, and from none would you receive the least offence.  Gladness, madam, is the lot of the happy, and sadness the portion of souls condemned to everlasting pains.  Be cheerful, then, and you will do something to deserve your beauty.”