“She is nature unadorned as far as her complexion goes, believe me,” said I to my sister.  “During my constant journeys she has always slept at my side, and her face at waking has always been as at noon and all day long.  She related to us once at the Marechale d’Albret’s, where I knew her, that at Martinique—­that distant country which was her cradle—­an ancient negress, well preserved and robust, had been kind enough to take her into her dwelling.  This woman led her one day into the woods.  She stripped of its bark some shrub, after having sought it a long time.  She grated this bark and mixed it with the juice of chosen herbs.  She wrapped up all this concoction in half a banana skin, and gave the specific to the little D’Aubigne.

“This mess having no nasty taste, the little girl consented to return fifteen or twenty times into the grove, where her negress carefully composed and served up to her the same feast.

“‘Why do you care to give me this green paste?’ the young creole asked her one day.

“The old woman said:  ’My dear child, I cannot wait till you have enough sense to learn to understand these plants, for I love you as if you were my own daughter, and I want to leave you a secret which will cause you to live a long time.  Though I look as I do, I am 138 years old already.  I am the oldest person in the colony, and this paste that I make for you has preserved my strength and my freshness.  It will produce the same effect on my dear little girl, and will keep her young and pretty too for a long time.’

“This negress, unhappily, fell asleep one day under a wild pear-tree in the Savannah, and a crocodile came out of the river hard by and devoured her.”

“I have heard tell,” replied my sister, “that Mademoiselle d’Aubigne, after the death of her mother, or husband, was bound by the ties of a close friendship with Ninon de l’Enclos, whose beauty made such a sensation among the gallants, and still occupies them.

“One was assured, you know, that Ninon possesses a potion, and that in her generosity to her friend, the fair Indian, she lent her her phial of elixir.”

“No, no,” said I to the Marquise, “that piece of gallantry of Ninon is only a myth; it is the composition of Martinique, or of the negress, which is the real recipe of Madame de Maintenon.  She talked of it one day, when I was present, in the King’s carriage.  His Majesty said to her:  ’I am astonished that, with your natural intelligence, you have not kept in your mind the nature of this Indian shrub and herbs; with such a secret you would be able to-day to make many happy, and there are some kings, who, to grow young again, would give you half their empire.’

“‘I am not a worshipper of riches,’ said this mistress of talk; ’bad kings might offer me all the treasures and crowns they liked, and I would not make them young again.’

“‘And me, madame,’ said the prince, ’would you consent to make me young again?’