place as woman and as marquise in my eyes. I must tell you, dear
friend, that while women are sometimes bad, they have hidden grandeurs
in their souls that men can never appreciate. Well, as I seem to be
making my last will and testament like a woman on the verge of old
age, I shall tell you that I was ever faithful to Conti, and should
have been till death, and yet I /know him/. His nature is charming,
apparently, and detestable beneath its surface. He is a charlatan in
matters of the heart. There are some men, like Nathan, of whom I have
already spoken to you, who are charlatans externally, and yet honest.
Such men lie to themselves. Mounted on their stilts, they think they
are on their feet, and perform their jugglery with a sort of
innocence; their humbuggery is in their blood; they are born
comedians, braggarts; extravagant in form as a Chinese vase; perhaps
they even laugh at themselves. Their personality is generous; like
Murat's kingly garments, it attracts danger. But Conti's duplicity
will be known only to the women who love him. In his art he has that
deep Italian jealousy which led the Carlone to murder Piola, and stuck
a stiletto into Paesiello. That terrible envy lurks beneath the
warmest comradeship. Conti has not the courage of his vice; he smiles
at Meyerbeer and flatters him, when he fain would tear him to bits. He
knows his weakness, and cultivates an appearance of sincerity; his
vanity still further leads him to play at sentiments which are far
indeed from his real heart. He represents himself as an artist who
receives his inspirations from heaven; Art is something saintly and
sacred to him; he is fanatic; he is sublime in his contempt for
worldliness; his eloquence seems to come from the deepest convictions.
He is a seer, a demon, a god, an angel. Calyste, although I warn you
about him, you will be his dupe. That Southern nature, that
impassioned artist is cold as a well-rope. Listen to him: the artist
is a missionary. Art is a religion, which has its priests and ought to