“Indeed I am neither flushed nor angry.”
“Ah, so ’tis your pleasure to call that color white? Bien! But then I would fain know by what name you designate the rose commonly known as red!”
“Can you never say a sensible word?”
“Hm—let me see—ay, it has happened, I own, but rarely—
Doch Chloë, Chloë zürne nicht!
Toll brennet deiner Augen Licht
Mich wie das Hundsgestirn die Hunde,
Und Worte schäumen mir vom Munde
Dem Geifer gleich der Wasserscheu—”
“Forsooth, you may well say that!”
“Ach, Mademoiselle, ’tis but little you know of the power of Eros! Upon my word, there are nights when I have been so lovesick I have stolen down through the Silk Yard and leaped the balustrade into Christen Skeel’s garden, and there I’ve stood like a statue among fragrant roses and violets, till the languishing Aurora has run her fingers through my locks.”
“Ah, Monsieur, you were surely mistaken when you spoke of Eros; it must have been Evan—and you may well go astray when you’re brawling around at night-time. You’ve never stood in Skeel’s garden; you’ve been at the sign of Mogens in Cappadocia among bottles and Rhenish wineglasses, and if you’ve been still as a statue, it’s been something besides dreams of love that robbed you of the power to move your legs.”
“You wrong me greatly! Though I may go to the vintner’s house sometimes, ’tis not for pleasure nor revelry, but to forget the gnawing anguish that afflicts me.”
“Ah!”