He pointed to the base of the statue, and I read there these words:
CAVE AMANTEM.
“Quid dicis, doctissime?” (“What do you say, most learned of men?”) he asked, rubbing his hands. “Let us see if we shall agree as to the meaning of this cave amantem.”
“Why, there are two possible meanings,” I said. “It may be translated: ‘Beware of him who loves you—distrust lovers.’ But I am not sure that cave amantem would be good Latin in that sense. In view of the lady’s diabolical expression, I should be inclined to believe rather that the artist meant to put the spectator on his guard against that terrible beauty. So that I should translate: ‘Look out for yourself if she loves you.’”
“Humph!” ejaculated M. de Peyrehorade; “yes, that is a possible translation; but, with all respect, I prefer the first, which I will develop a little, however. You know who Venus’s lover was?”
“She had several.”
“Yes, but the first one was Vulcan. Did not the artist mean to say: ‘Despite all your beauty, and your scornful air, you shall have a blacksmith, a wretched cripple, for a lover’? A solemn lesson for coquettes, monsieur!”
I could not help smiling, the interpretation seemed to me so exceedingly far-fetched.
“The Latin is a terrible language, with its extraordinary conciseness,” I observed, to avoid contradicting my antiquary directly; and I stepped back a few steps, to obtain a better view of the statue.
“One moment, colleague!” said M. de Peyrehorade, seizing my arm, “you have not seen all. There is still another inscription. Stand on the pedestal and look at the right arm.”