Now, do you not see that these volumes are French, joyfully French, wildly French, French before, French behind, French to the backbone.  Back then, curs! strike up the music; silence, bigots! advance my merry wags, my little pages, put your soft hands into the ladies’ hands and tickle them in the middle—­of the hand of course.  Ha! ha! these are high sounding and peripatetic reasons, or the author knows nothing of sound and the philosophy of Aristotle.  He has on his side the crown of France and the oriflamme of the king and Monsieur St. Denis, who, having lost his head, said “Mount-my-Joy!” Do you mean to say, you quadrupeds, that the word is wrong?  No.  It was certainly heard by a great many people at the time; but in these days of deep wretchedness you believe nothing concerning the good old saints.

The author has not finished yet.  Know all ye who read these tales with eye and hand, feel them in the head alone, and love them for the joy they bring you, and which goes to your heart, know that the author having in an evil hour let his ideas, id est, his inheritance, go astray, and being unable to get them together again, found himself in a state of mental nudity.  Then he cried like the woodcutter in the prologue of the book of his dear master Rabelais, in order to make himself heard by the gentleman on high, Lord Paramount of all things, and obtain from Him fresh ideas.  This said Most High, still busy with the congress of the time, threw to him through Mercury an inkstand with two cups, on which was engraved, after the manner of a motto, these three letters, Ave.  Then the poor fellow, perceiving no other help, took great care to turn over this said inkstand to find out the hidden meaning of it, thinking over the mysterious words and trying to find a key to them.  First, he saw that God was polite, like the great Lord as He is, because the world is His, and He holds the title of it from no one.  But since, in thinking over the days of his youth, he remembered no great service rendered to God, the author was in doubt concerning this hollow civility, and pondered long without finding out the real substance of the celestial utensil.  By reason of turning it and twisting it about, studying it, looking at it, feeling it, emptying it, knocking it in an interrogatory manner, smacking it down, standing it up straight, standing it on one side, and turning it upside down, he read backwards Eva.  Who is Eva, if not all women in one?  Therefore by the Voice Divine was it said to the author: 

Think of women; woman will heal thy wound, stop the waste-hole in thy bag of tricks.  Woman is thy wealth; have but one woman, dress, undress, and fondle that women, make use of the woman—­woman is everything—­woman has an inkstand of her own; dip thy pen in that bottomless inkpot.  Women like love; make love to her with the pen only, tickle her phantasies, and sketch merrily for her a thousand pictures of love in a thousand pretty ways.