Yet his delineation of the society of the day was so true that somebody remarked about his play, Le Cercle, that Poinsinet must have been listening at the doors. He was drowned in Spain while crossing the Guadalquivir.
Caresne was a painter and poet whose poems and pictures were bad, but his conversation amusing. He wrote the following verses to Lisette, whose rapid progress and intelligence made her seem to be already passing out of childhood into girlhood:
Plus n’est le temps, où de mes seuls couplets
Ma Lise aimait à se voir célébrée.
Plus n’est le temps où de mes seuls bouquets
Je la voyais toujours parée.
Les vers que l’amour me dictait
Ne répétaient que le nom de Lisette,
Et Lisette les écoutait.
Plus d’un baiser payait ma chansonette,