'Bacchus, methinks,' said the poet, pointing to the thyrsus.
'And this?'
'It would seem, Bacchus again,' said Saint Gelais.
'The hair and the breast are like a girl,' said the king; 'it has the same smile as La Gioconda.'
'A hermaphrodite then,' returned the poet; and repeated Plato's fable of the original men-women, and the origin of the passion of Love. 'Maître Léonard would fain restore the primitive type,' he concluded mockingly.
Francis turned to the painter.
'Resolve our doubts, Master,' he said; 'is it Bacchus or a hermaphrodite?'
'Sire,' said Leonardo, reddening, 'it is St. John the Baptist.'
The king shook his head in bewilderment. This mixture of the sacred and the profane seemed blasphemous to him, yet rather attractive. Not that the blasphemy mattered; every one knows that painters have queer fancies!
'I will buy both pictures,' he said; 'the Bacchus—I mean the Baptist, and Lisa la Gioconda. What is the price?'