“No matter; do it again, for my peace of mind.”
I returned to Agathe, who laughed till the tears came. I had not as yet thought of mentioning the silhouette to her; that was the bouquet for dessert. My neighbor’s profile was pasted on a pink card, and we saw two lines written at the bottom. Poetry of Raymond’s composition: that should be a curiosity.
“My profile with these little Loves is surrounded,
Since I feel every day, love, for thee love unbounded.”
Ingenious, in very truth! worthy of Berthellemot! But as we noticed that one of the little Loves was standing on his nose, we concluded that it should read “I smell,” instead of “I feel.” Agathe proposed at first to stick my neighbor’s likeness on the mirror in our dining room; but she changed her mind. She put it carefully away, intending to have copies made of it, which she proposed to enclose in amorous circulars composed from Raymond’s billets-doux, and to send them to all the milliner’s apprentices of her acquaintance, taking care to write at the bottom the address of the original of the portrait.
The champagne finished what the stimulating dinner had begun; we were in the mood to say and do all sorts of foolish things. Agathe stuffed herself with sweetmeats and jelly; I drew the corks; the wine foamed and sparkled, and soon passed from our glasses to our lips; we no longer knew what we were saying, but we knew very well what we were doing! Agathe threw aside all restraint; and if Raymond was listening, surely he must have thought that we were fighting.
But the champagne, which effervesces when it is first poured out, will not effervesce again unless it is well shaken, and in due time refuses to effervesce at all. In like manner, readers, the volcanoes which have displayed the greatest activity become extinct! In like manner, readers of the gentler sex, those seductive fires which your lovely eyes emit, and to which you owe so many conquests, will die away. Everything has its day, alas! in nature; everything falls to ruin and decay; everything dies. It is the universal law; for that we are born, and each step in life is a step toward the grave; there is no possibility there of arranging compromises.
“Death hath rigors unexampled;
Vainly pray we to her;
The cruel creature stuffs her ears
And lets us shout at will.
The poor man in his thatch-roofed cottage
Is subject to her laws;
The guard who stands at the Louvre gates
Protects not kings from her.”
I cannot say how the champagne led me to this quotation; however, I am sure that you will not take it ill of me; these lines are never misplaced, and I would like, indeed, to have been the author of them.
We had become virtuous then, in action at all events. I looked at my watch; almost eight o’clock! The deuce! and my rendezvous. The champagne had not entirely deprived me of memory, but I confess that Agathe was responsible for the loss of a large part of my zeal.