Nature deprived that charming woman of ten year of life; she became consumptive at the age of sixty, ten years after I had made her acquaintance.  The climate of Paris often proves fatal to our Italian actresses.  Two years before her death I saw her perform the character of Marianne in the comedy of Marivaux, and in spite of her age and declining health the illusion was complete.  She died in my presence, holding her daughter in her arms, and she was giving her the advice of a tender mother five minutes before she breathed her last.  She was honourably buried in the church of St. Sauveur, without the slightest opposition from the venerable priest, who, far from sharing the anti-christain intolerancy of the clergy in general, said that her profession as an actress had not hindered her from being a good Christian, and that the earth was the common mother of all human beings, as Jesus Christ had been the Saviour of all mankind.

You will forgive me, dear reader, if I have made you attend the funeral of Silvia ten years before her death; believe me I have no intention of performing a miracle; you may console yourself with the idea that I shall spare you that unpleasant task when poor Silvia dies.

Her only daughter, the object of her adoration, was seated next to her at the supper-table.  She was then only nine years old, and being entirely taken up by her mother I paid no attention to her; my interest in her was to come.

After the supper, which was protracted to a late hour, I repaired to the house of Madame Quinson, my landlady, where I found myself very comfortable.  When I woke in the morning, the said Madame Quinson came to my room to tell me that a servant was outside and wished to offer me his services.  I asked her to send him in, and I saw a man of very small stature; that did not please me, and I told him so.

“My small stature, your honour, will be a guarantee that I shall never borrow your clothes to go to some amorous rendezvous.”

“Your name?”

“Any name you please.”

“What do you mean?  I want the name by which you are known.”

“I have none.  Every master I serve calls me according to his fancy, and I have served more than fifty in my life.  You may call me what you like.”

“But you must have a family name.”

“I never had any family.  I had a name, I believe, in my young days, but I have forgotten it since I have been in service.  My name has changed with every new master.”

“Well!  I shall call you Esprit.”

“You do me a great honour.”

“Here, go and get me change for a Louis.”

“I have it, sir.”

“I see you are rich.”

“At your service, sir.”

“Where can I enquire about you?”

“At the agency for servants.  Madame Quinson, besides, can answer your enquiries.  Everybody in Paris knows me.”

“That is enough.  I shall give you thirty sous a day; you must find your own clothes:  you will sleep where you like, and you must be here at seven o’clock every morning.”