The conversation turned upon Lafontaine’s epigram, of which I had only recited the first ten verses, as the rest is too licentious; and she said,—
“But I suppose it is only a poet’s fancy, at which one could but smile.”
“Possibly, but I did not care to wound your ears.”
“You are very good,” said she, using the pleasant tu, “but all the same, I am not so thin-skinned, as I have a closet which the duke has had painted over with couples in various amorous attitudes. We go there sometimes, and I assure you that I do not experience the slightest sensation.”
“That may be through a defect of temperament, for whenever I see well-painted voluptuous pictures I feel myself on fire. I wonder that while you and the duke look at them, you do not try to put some of them into practice.”
“We have only friendship for one another.”
“Let him believe it who will.”
“I am sure he is a man, but I am unable to say whether he is able to give a woman any real proofs of his love.”
“Yet he has a son.”
“Yes, he has a child who calls him father; but he himself confesses that he is only able to shew his manly powers with his wife.”