“And why does he not fear the same danger for you, when your ecstasies are in reality much more frequent than mine?”

“He says that the liquor distilled by us women does not come from the brain, as is the case with men, and that the generating parts of woman have no contact with her intellect.  The consequence of it, he says, is that the child is not the offspring of the mother as far as the brain, the seat of reason, is concerned, but of the father, and it seems to me very true.  In that important act the woman has scarcely the amount of reason that she is in need of, and she cannot have any left to enable her to give a dose to the being she is generating.”  “Your friend is a very learned man.  But do you know that such a way of arguing opens my eyes singularly?  It is evident that, if that system be true, women ought to be forgiven for all the follies which they commit on account of love, whilst man is inexcusable, and I should be in despair if I happened to place you in a position to become a mother.”

“I shall know before long, and if it should be the case so much the better.  My mind is made up, and my decision taken.”

“And what is that decision?”

“To abandon my destiny entirely to you both.  I am quite certain that neither one nor the other would let me remain at the convent.”

“It would be a fatal event which would decide our future destinies.  I would carry you off, and take you to England to marry you.”

“My friend thinks that a physician might be bought, who, under the pretext of some disease of his own invention, would prescribe to me to go somewhere to drink the waters—­a permission which the bishop might grant.  At the watering-place I would get cured, and come back here, but I would much rather unite our destinies for ever.  Tell me, dearest, could you manage to live anywhere as comfortably as you do here?”

“Alas! my love, no, but with you how could I be unhappy?  But we will resume that subject whenever it may be necessary.  Let us go to bed.”

“Yes.  If I have a son my friend wishes to act towards him as a father.”

“Would he believe himself to be the father?”

“You might both of you believe it, but some likeness would soon enlighten me as to which of you two was the true father.”

“Yes.  If, for instance, the child composed poetry, then you would suppose that he was the son of your friend.”

“How do you know that my friend can write poetry?”

“Admit that he is the author of the six lines which you wrote in answer to mine.”

“I cannot possibly admit such a falsehood, because, good or bad, they were of my own making, and so as to leave you no doubt let me convince you of it at once.”

“Oh, never mind!  I believe you, and let us go to bed, or Love will call out the god of Parnassus.”

“Let him do it, but take this pencil and write; I am Apollo, you may be Love:”