“We believed so at the time, my Lord; but there are as many changes in the fashion of making love as there are in that of making dresses. Honour me, Count Devereux, by using my snuff-box and then looking at the lid.”
“It is the picture of Charles the Second which adorns it; is it not?”
“No, Count Devereux, it is the diamonds which adorn it. His Majesty’s face I thought very beautiful while he was living; but now, on my conscience, I consider it the ugliest phiz I ever beheld. But I directed your notice to the picture because we were talking of love; and Old Rowley believed that he could make it better than any one else. All his courtiers had the same opinion of themselves; and I dare say the beaux garcons of Queen Anne’s reign would say that not one of King Charley’s gang knew what love was. Oh! ‘tis a strange circle of revolutions, that love! Like the earth, it always changes, and yet always has the same materials.”
“L’amour, l’amour, toujours l’amour, with Count Anthony Hamilton!” said Boulainvilliers. “He is always on that subject; and, sacre bleu! when he was younger, I am told he was like Cacus, the son of Vulcan, and breathed nothing but flames.”
“You flatter me,” said Hamilton. “Solve me now a knotty riddle, my Lord Bolingbroke. Why does a young man think it the greatest compliment to be thought wise, while an old man thinks it the greatest compliment to be told he has been foolish?”
“Is love foolish then?” said Lord Bolingbroke.
“Can you doubt it?” answered Hamilton; “it makes a man think more of another than himself! I know not a greater proof of folly!”
“Ah! mon aimable ami,” cried Chaulieu; “you are the wickedest witty person I know. I cannot help loving your language, while I hate your sentiments.”
“My language is my own; my sentiments are those of all men,” answered Hamilton: “but are we not, by the by, to have young Arouet here to-night? What a charming person he is!”
“Yes,” said Boulainvilliers. “He said he should be late; and I expect Fontenelle, too, but he will not come before supper. I found Fontenelle this morning conversing with my cook on the best manner of dressing asparagus. I asked him the other day what writer, ancient or modern, had ever given him the most sensible pleasure? After a little pause, the excellent old man said, ‘Daphnus.’ ‘Daphnus!’ repeated I, ‘who the devil is he?’ ‘Why,’ answered Fontenelle, with tears of gratitude in his benevolent eyes, ‘I had some hypochondriacal ideas that suppers were unwholesome; and Daphnus is an ancient physician, who asserts the contrary; and declares,—think, my friend, what a charming theory!—that the moon is a great assistant of the digestion!’”