That same afternoon, at the spice in the Queen's presence-chamber, were Messire de Montluc and his sons. And we fell in talk—I remember not how—upon certain opinions of the schoolmen. Messire Renaud would have it that nothing is, but all things only seem to be.
"Nay, truly, Messire," said I, laughing; "I am sure I am."
"Pardon me—not at all!" he answered.
"And that cedar-wood fire is," said Damoiselle Melisende.
"By no means," replied Messire Renaud. "It exists but in your fancy. There is no such thing as matter—only mind. My imagination sees a fire there: your imagination sees a fire:—but there is no fire,—such a thing does not exist."
"Put your finger into this fire which does not exist, if you please, Messire," remarked the Queen, who seemed much amused; "I expect you will come to a different conclusion within five minutes."
"I humbly crave your Highness' pardon. My finger is an imagination. It does not really exist."
"And the pain of the burn—would that be imagination also?" she inquired.
"Undoubtedly, Lady," said he.
"But what is to prevent your imagining that there is no pain?" pursued Her Highness.