“What shall I say to her?”
“Morbleu! tell her what you see; that I am a prisoner, and that the king talks to me of friendship like Cicero, who wrote on it; and of virtue like Socrates, who practised it. It is in vain I tell him I am ungrateful for the first, and incredulous as to the last: he only repeats it over again.”
“Is that all I can do for you?”
“Ah, mon Dieu! I fear so.”
“Then it is done.”
“How so?”
“I guessed all this, and told your wife so.”
“And what did she say?”
“At first she would not believe; but I trust now,” continued he, glancing towards the window, “she will yield to evidence. Ask me something more difficult.”
“Then, bring here the griffin of Signor Astolfo, and let me mount en croupe, and go to my wife.”