Honorine | Page 3

This, at any rate, was the opinion of the town of Genoa, where,
to some women, the extreme reserve, the melancholy of the French
Consul could be explained only by the word passion. It may be
remarked, in passing, that women never complain of being the victims
of a preference; they are very ready to immolate themselves for the
common weal. Onorina Pedrotti, who might have hated the Consul if
she had been altogether scorned, loved her sposo no less, and perhaps
more, when she know that he had loved. Women allow precedence in
love affairs. All is well if other women are in question.
A man is not a diplomate with impunity: the sposo was as secret as the
grave--so secret that the merchants of Genoa chose to regard the young
Consul's attitude as premeditated, and the heiress might perhaps have
slipped through his fingers if he had not played his part of a love-sick
malade imaginaire. If it was real, the women thought it too degrading
to be believed.
Pedrotti's daughter gave him her love as a consolation; she lulled these
unknown griefs in a cradle of tenderness and Italian caresses.
Il Signor Pedrotti had indeed no reason to complain of the choice to
which he was driven by his beloved child. Powerful protectors in Paris
watched over the young diplomate's fortunes. In accordance with a
promise made by the Ambassador to the Consul-General's father-in-law,
the young man was created Baron and Commander of the Legion of
Honor. Signor Pedrotti himself was made a Count by the King of
Sardinia. Onorina's dower was a million of francs. As to the fortune of
the Casa Pedrotti, estimated at two millions, made in the corn trade, the
young couple came into it within six months of their marriage, for the
first and last Count Pedrotti died in January 1831.
Onorina Pedrotti is one of those beautiful Genoese women who, when
they are beautiful, are the most magnificent creatures in Italy. Michael
Angelo took his models in Genoa for the tomb of Giuliano. Hence the
fulness and singular placing of the breast in the figures of Day and
Night, which so many critics have thought exaggerated, but which is
peculiar to the women of Liguria. A Genoese beauty is no longer to be

found excepting under the mezzaro, as at Venice it is met with only
under the fazzioli. This phenomenon is observed among all fallen
nations. The noble type survives only among the populace, as after the
burning of a town coins are found hidden in the ashes. And Onorina, an
exception as regards her fortune, is no less an exceptional patrician
beauty. Recall to mind the figure of Night which Michael Angelo has
placed at the feet of the Pensieroso, dress her in modern garb, twist that
long hair round the magnificent head, a little dark in complexion, set a
spark of fire in those dreamy eyes, throw a scarf about the massive
bosom, see the long dress, white, embroidered with flowers, imagine
the statue sitting upright, with her arms folded like those of
Mademoiselle Georges, and you will see before you the Consul's wife,
with a boy of six, as handsome as a mother's desire, and a little girl of
four on her knees, as beautiful as the type of childhood so laboriously
sought out by the sculptor David to grace a tomb.
This beautiful family was the object of Camille's secret study. It struck
Mademoiselle des Touches that the Consul looked rather too
absent-minded for a perfectly happy man.
Although, throughout the day, the husband and wife had offered her the
pleasing spectacle of complete happiness, Camille wondered why one
of the most superior men she had ever met, and whom she had seen too
in Paris drawing-rooms, remained as Consul-General at Genoa when he
possessed a fortune of a hundred odd thousand francs a year. But, at the
same time, she had discerned, by many of the little nothings which
women perceive with the intelligence of the Arab sage in Zadig, that
the husband was faithfully devoted. These two handsome creatures
would no doubt love each other without a misunderstanding till the end
of their days. So Camille said to herself alternately, "What is
wrong?--Nothing is wrong," following the misleading symptoms of the
Consul's demeanor; and he, it may be said, had the absolute calmness
of Englishmen, of savages, of Orientals, and of consummate
diplomatists.
In discussing literature, they spoke of the perennial stock-in-trade of the
republic of letters--woman's sin. And they presently found themselves

confronted by two opinions: When a woman sins, is the man or the
woman to blame? The three women present--the Ambassadress, the
Consul's wife, and Mademoiselle des Touches, women, of course, of
blameless reputations--were without pity for the woman. The men tried
to