After employing many methods of seduction to rekindle a flame that was on the point of dying out, Camilla determined to resort to that final method, which sometimes succeeds, but which destroys all hope when it fails of its effect. She determined to try to make Léodgard jealous.
In that multitude of young noblemen, brilliant dandies, and confessed libertines whom she had invited to her evening party, it was inevitable that there should be more than one who made love to her and aspired to take her away from Léodgard, or at least to induce her to be unfaithful to him.
"I will be more fascinating, more coquettish than ever," said Camilla to the fair-haired Flavia, her friend and confidante. "I will accord a very marked preference to some of my adorers, so that Léodgard must notice it! He will be annoyed—he is so hot-blooded, so passionate! perhaps a scene will result—sword thrusts—a duel!—Oh! that would be delicious! for then he would come back to me, more in love than ever."
"And suppose he should be killed in the duel?" rejoined Flavia.
"So much the worse! What would you have? he who risks nothing obtains nothing.—But, no—Léodgard is as brave as he is skilful; he would be the victor."
"In that case, the other will be killed."
"Well, my dear! I shall have given him the sweetest of hopes all the evening! Will he be so very much to be pitied?"
That is how courtesans loved in those days; and even among the grandes dames, there were some, you know, who cast their glove into an amphitheatre filled with lions and said to their lovers:
"If you really love me, you will go there and pick it up."
What affection, great God! What a melancholy idea of love that would give one!