“The poor friar is safe, but I trembled for
him. Men are terrible. When they love you
they will not listen to anything.”
“Catherine,” I said, with no slight grudge,
“did you make me come here for no other purpose
than to listen to the quarrels of your friends?
Alas! I have no right to take part in them.”
“You would have had, M. Jacques,” she
said, “you should have had, if you had wanted.”
“But,” I continued, “you are the
most courted lady in Paris. You never mentioned
yonder young gentleman.”
“I had no occasion to think of him. He
came quite unexpectedly.”
“And he surprised you with Friar Ange?”
“He fancied he saw things which did not occur.
He is hot-headed and does not want to listen to any
reason.”
The half-opened chemise disclosed under transparent
laces a breast swollen like a beautiful fruit and
adorned like a budding rose. I took her in my
arms and covered her bosom with kisses.
“Heavens!” she exclaimed, “in the
street! Before M. d’ Anquetil, who sees
us.”
“Who is M. d’Anquetil?”
“Pardi! he is the murderer of Friar Ange.
Who else do you fancy he may be?”
“True, Catherine, no others are wanted.
Your friends surround you in sufficient numbers.”
“M. Jacques, do not insult me, if you please.”
“I do not insult you, Catherine. I acknowledge
your charms, to which I should like to render the
same homage that others do.”
“M. Jacques, what you have now said smells
odiously of the cookshop, of that old codger who is
your father.”
“Not so very long ago, Mam’selle Catherine,
you were mighty glad to smell its cooking-stove.”
“Fie! the villain! the mean rascal! He
outrages a woman!”
And now she began to squeak and squeal, and M d’Anquetil
left his servants, came up to us, and pushed her into
the house, calling her a cheat and a rake, went into
the passage behind her, and slammed the door in my
face.
In the Library with M. Jerome Coignard—A
Conversation on Morals— Taken to M. d’Asterac’s
Study—Salamanders again—The Solar
Powder— A Visit and its Consequences.
The thought of Catherine occupied my mind all the
week following that vexatious adventure. Her
image glittered on the leaves of the folios over which
I bent in the library, close to my dear tutor; so
much so that Plotinus, Olympiodorus, Fabricius, Vossius
spoke of nothing else to me than a tiny damsel in
a lace chemise. These visions rendered me lazy.
But, indulgent to others, as to himself, M. Jerome
Coignard had a kind smile for my trouble and distraction.
