“What is that?”
“Give me thy hand.”
“I feel it and I can picture it; for, without this natural phenomenon, man could not impregnate his consort. And this foolish theologian pretendeth that it is an imperfection!”
“Yea, for this phenomenon springeth from desire, for ‘tis very true that it would not have worked in me, sweet Hedvige, had I not found thee charming and had not what I had seen of thee given me the most seductive idea of the beauties I see not. Tell me frankly if, after feeling this rigidity of mine, thou dost not experience an agreeable sensation?”
“I confess it; ‘tis precisely where thou pressest. Dost not feel as I, my dear Helène, an itching and a longing on likening to the very true discourse given to us by this gentleman?”
“Yea, I feel it, but I feel it very often, without any discourse exciting it.”
“And then,” quoth I, “Nature forceth thee to appease it thus?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, that it were so, Hedvige! Even in sleep one’s hand strayeth there by instinct; and, lacking this easement, I have read that we should suffer terrible maladies.”
And whilst we continued this philosophical converse, which the youthful theologian sustained with an authoritative tone, and which brought a look of voluptuousness to the lovely complexion of her cousin, we came to the edge of a fine pool where one descended by a marble staircase to bathe. Although it was chilly, our heads were warm, and it came to me to propose to the maidens that they put their feet in the water, assuring them that it would do them good and, if they permitted me, that I would count it an honour to remove their shoes and stockings.