I was rather glad I had met these young sprigs of diplomacy.  They are good antidotes for low spirits, for they are always in a hilarious state and enjoy their youth in idle pleasure, knowing they are destined to grow old in the soporific dulness of an Eastern court.

I thought we three would be alone at dinner; alas! there were five of us.

Two female artistes who revelled in their precocious emancipation; two divinities worshipped in the temple of the grand sculptors of modern Athens; the Scylla and Charybdis of Paris.

I am in the habit of bowing with the same apparent respect to every woman in the universe.  I have bowed to the ebony women of Senegal; to the moon-colored women of the Southern Archipelago; to the snow-white women of Behring’s Strait, and to the bronze women of Lahore and Ceylon.  Now it was impossible for me to withdraw from the presence of two fair women whose portraits are the admiration of all connoisseurs who visit the Louvre.  Besides, I have a theory:  the less respectable a woman is, the more respect we should show her, and thus endeavor to bring her back to virtue.

I remained and tried to add my fifth share of antique gayety to the feast.  We were Praxiteles, Phidias and Scopas; we had inaugurated the modest Venus and her sister in their temples, and we drank to our model goddesses in wines from the Ionian Archipelago.

That evening, you may remember, Antigone was played at the Odeon in the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

I have another theory:  in any action, foolish or wise, either carry it through bravely when once undertaken, or refrain from undertaking it.  I had not the wisdom to refrain, therefore I was compelled to imitate the folly of my friends; at dessert I even abused the invitation, and too often sought to drown sorrow in the ruby cup.

We started for the Odeon.  Our entrance at the theatre caused quite an excitement.  The ladies, cavalierly suspended on the arms of the two future Eastern ambassadors, sailed in with a conscious air of epicurean grace and dazzling beauty.  The classic ushers obsequiously threw open the doors, and led us to our box.  I brought up the procession, looking as insolent and proud as I did the day I entered the ruined pagoda of Bangalore to carry off the statue of Sita.

The first act was being played, and the Athenian school preserved a religious silence in front of the proscenium.  The noise we made by drawing back the curtain of our box, slamming the door and loudly laughing, drowned for an instant the touching strains of the tragic choir, and centred upon us the angry looks of the audience.

With what cool impertinence did our divinities lean over the seats and display their round white arms, that have so often been copied in Parian marble by our most celebrated sculptors!  Our three intellectual faces, wreathed in the silly smiles of intoxication, hovered over the silken curls of our goddesses, thus giving the whole theatre a full view of our happiness!