“You are very beautiful.”
“But that is so banal––that remark.”
“You complain that I tell you the truth when you ask it? You have so often heard it that the telling becomes banal? Shall I continue?”
“But it is of yourself that I would hear.”
“So? Then it is as I feared. It is you who have forgotten.”
They were interrupted at that moment, for he was called upon for a story, and he related one of his life as a soldier,––a little incident, but everything pleased. They called upon him for another and another. The hour grew late, and at last the banqueters rose and began to remask and assume their various characters.
“What are you, monsieur, with that very strange dress that you wear, a Roman or a Greek?” asked his companion.
“I really don’t know––a sort of nondescript. I did not choose my costume; it was made up for me by my friends. They called me Mark Antony, but that was because they did not know what else to call me. But they promised me Cleopatra if I would come with them.”
“They would have done better to call you Petrarch, for I am Laura.”