She gave me a gracious look, but without uttering one word.

This was the first time I had anything to do with a woman of quality, and that air of patronage, whatever kindness might accompany it, always put me out of temper, for I thought it made love out of the question.  However, as we were in the presence of the cardinal, I fancied that she might be right in treating me in that fashion.

The table was laid out near the cardinal’s bed, and the marchioness, who ate hardly anything, encouraged me in my good appetite.

“I have told you that the abbe is equal to me in that respect,” said S. C.

“I truly believe,” answered the marchioness, “that he does not remain far behind you; but,” added she with flattery, “you are more dainty in your tastes.”

“Would her ladyship be so good as to tell me in what I have appeared to her to be a mere glutton?  For in all things I like only dainty and exquisite morsels.”

“Explain what you mean by saying in all things,” said the cardinal.  Taking the liberty of laughing, I composed a few impromptu verses in which I named all I thought dainty and exquisite.  The marchioness applauded, saying that she admired my courage.

“My courage, madam, is due to you, for I am as timid as a hare when I am not encouraged; you are the author of my impromptu.”

“I admire you.  As for myself, were I encouraged by Apollo himself, I could not compose four lines without paper and ink.”

“Only give way boldly to your genius, madam, and you will produce poetry worthy of heaven.”

“That—­is my opinion, too,” said the cardinal.  “I entreat you to give me permission to skew your ten stanzas to the abbe.”

“They are not very good, but I have no objection provided it remains between us.”

The cardinal gave me, then, the stanzas composed by the marchioness, and I read them aloud with all the expression, all the feeling necessary to such reading.

“How well you have read those stanzas!” said the marchioness; “I can hardly believe them to be my own composition; I thank you very much.  But have the goodness to give the benefit of your reading to the stanzas which his eminence has written in answer to mine.  They surpass them much.”

“Do not believe it, my dear abbe,” said the cardinal, handing them to me.  “Yet try not to let them lose anything through your reading.”

There was certainly no need of his eminence enforcing upon me such a recommendation; it was my own poetry.  I could not have read it otherwise than in my best style, especially when I had before me the beautiful woman who had inspired them, and when, besides, Bacchus was in me giving courage to Apollo as much as the beautiful eyes of the marchioness were fanning into an ardent blaze the fire already burning through my whole being.

I read the stanzas with so much expression that the cardinal was enraptured, but I brought a deep carnation tint upon the cheeks of the lovely marchioness when I came to the description of those beauties which the imagination of the poet is allowed to guess at, but which I could not, of course, have gazed upon.  She snatched the paper from my hands with passion, saying that I was adding verses of my own; it was true, but I did not confess it.  I was all aflame, and the fire was scorching her as well as me.