Avec les brocs de vin le soir dans les bosquets
—Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,
L’innocent paradis, plein de plaisirs furtifs,
Est-il déjà plus loin que l’Inde ou que la Chine?
Peut-on le rappeler avec des cris plaintifs,
Et l’animer encore d’une voix argentine,
L’innocent paradis plein de plaisirs furtifs?
“Waltzes are milestones of sentimentality,” said Guy shrilly to Teresa, as they made their way onto the loggia to sit out the remainder of the dance, “milestones of sentimentality, because a lady can be dated by the fact of whether it’s the Blue Danube, or the Sourire d’Avril, or the Merry Widow, that glazes her eye and parts her lips—taking her back to that charming period when the heels of Mallarmé’s débutantes go tap, tap, tap, when in a deliciously artificial atmosphere sex expands and, like some cunning hunted insect, makes itself look like a flower; I haven’t yet read A l’Ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleur, but I’m sure it’s an exquisite description of that period—débutantes, and waltzes, and camouflaged sex. Its very title is like the name of a French waltz—or scent.”
Teresa smiled vaguely.... Why had she scorned that period, barricading herself against it with books, and Bach and ... myths? When she was old and heard the strains of ... yes, the Chocolate Soldier ought to be her milestone ... well, when she hears the Chocolate Soldier, if her eyes glaze and her lips part it will be out of mere bravado.
But something was happening ... what was it Guy was saying?