Marphise (nettled and even angered)—"He again?"
The Canoness—"Do you, perhaps, know my lover?"
Marphise (repressing herself)—"Do you tenderly love that lover, so faithful to you?"
The Canoness (with fire)—"Oh! I love him with all the power of my soul."
Marphise—"Go, dear daughter. Let the next one come. (sighs) May God protect all constant loves."
Ursine, Countess of Mont-Ferrier, approaches on a run and leaping like a doe in the month of May. You never saw, and never will you see a more dainty, more saucy, or more savory creature. She was one of the most giddy-headed climbers among those who gathered fruit. Her chaplet of gladiolas lies awry over her head, and one of the heavy tresses of her warm-blonde hair tumbles undone upon her dimpled shoulder that is as white as it is plump. Her skirt is green of color, and red her stockings. Her impudent mouth is still purple with the juice of grapes, no less ripe than her own lips. She gives a last bite with her pearly teeth to the almost wholly plundered cluster in her hands, and smiling kneels down at Marphise's feet which she tenderly clasps. Before being interrogated, she cries with charming volubility:
"Venerated Priestess, my lover is a mere college bachelor, but he is so perfect, so handsome, so witty! Ah! (she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth) that he would deserve to be a duke, an emperor, or a Pope! Aye, a Pope! Even better, if better could be possible!"
Marphise (a vague apprehension stealing over her)—"And what is the name of that model of a lover, that marvel of a gallant?"
Ursine—"His name, venerated Priestess? (snatching with her lips another grape from the cluster). His name? Oh, for his exploits in love, he should be called 'Valiant!' For his charms: 'Prince Charming!' For his constancy, 'Constant!' For his love, 'Cupid' with the strength of Hercules!"
Marphise—"You are a happy girl, dear daughter. Constancy is a rare jewel in these days of fickleness and deceit."