“You excited me, but she undid your work even more quickly.”
“Are you always obliged to have a girl beside you when you make love to her?”
“No; before, there was no question of making a son.”
“What? you are going to make her pregnant? That’s ridiculous! Does she imagine that she has conceived?”
“Certainly; and the hope makes her happy.”
“What a mad idea! But why did you try to do it three times?”
“I thought to shew my strength, and that if I gazed on you I should not fail; but I was quite mistaken.”
“I pity you for having suffered so much.”
“You will renew my strength.”
As a matter of fact, I do not know whether to attribute it to the difference between the old and the young, but I spent a most delicious night with the beautiful Venetian—a night which I can only compare to those I passed at Parma with Henriette, and at Muran with the beautiful nun. I spent fourteen hours in bed, of which four at least were devoted to expiating the insult I had offered to love. When I had dressed and taken my chocolate I told Marcoline to dress herself with elegance, and to expect me in the evening just before the play began. I could see that she was intensely delighted with the prospect.