“‛Tis Venus’ self a stooping o’er her prey!”
exclaimed M. de Peyrehorade, gratified at my enthusiasm.
The expression of infernal irony was augmented, perhaps, by the contrast between her eyes inlaid with silver, very brilliant, and the blackish-green patina which time had given to the whole statue. Those brilliant eyes produced a certain illusion, which recalled reality, life. I remembered what my guide had told me, that she made those who looked at her cast down their eyes. That was almost true, and I could not refrain from a gesture of anger against myself at feeling somewhat ill at ease before this figure of bronze.
“Now that you have admired everything in detail, my dear colleague in the antique,” said my host, “let us proceed, if you please, to a scientific discussion. What do you say about this inscription, to which you have not paid any attention as yet?”
He showed me the base of the statue, and there I read these words:
CAVE AMANTEM.
“Quid dicis, doctissime?” he asked me, rubbing his hands. “Let us see whether we shall agree on the meaning of this cave amantem!”
“Why,” I said, “there are two possible meanings. You can translate, ‛Beware of him who loves thee; distrust lovers.’ But, in this sense I do not know whether cave amantem would be good Latinity. Looking to the lady’s diabolical expression, I am more inclined to think that the artist meant to warn the beholder against this terrible beauty. So I would translate, ‛Beware for thyself, if she loves thee.’”
“Humph!” said M. de Peyrehorade. “Yes, that is an admissible rendering: but you will not be offended if I prefer the first translation, which, however, I shall develop. You know who the lover of Venus was, do you not?”
“There are several.”