“It is a very natural feeling, dearest. Love itself is a kind of curiosity, if it be lawful to put curiosity in the rank of the passions; but you have not that feeling about me?”
“No, for fear you might disappoint me, for I love you, and I want everything to speak in your favour.”
“I know you might be disappointed, and consequently I must do everything in my power to preserve your good opinion.”
“Then you are satisfied with me?”
“Surely. I am a good architect, and I think you are grandly built.”
“Stay, Iolas, do not touch me; it is enough that you have seen me.”
“Alas! it is by touching that one rectifies the mistakes of the eyes; one judges thus of smoothness and solidity. Let me kiss these two fair sources of life. I prefer them to the hundred breasts of Cybele, and I am not jealous of Athys.”
“You are wrong there; Sardini told me that it was Diana of Ephesus who had the hundred breasts.”
How could I help laughing to hear mythology issuing from Clementine’s mouth at such a moment! Could any lover foresee such an incident?
I pressed with my hand her alabaster breast, and yet the desire of knowledge subdued love in the heart of Clementine. But far from mistaking her condition I thought it a good omen. I told her that she was perfectly right, and that I was wrong, and a feeling of literary vanity prevented her opposing my pressing with my lips a rosy bud, which stood out in relief against the alabaster sphere.