it all, I don't want it; I want you. I will never cease to love
you; I will do whatever you tell me, and I promise never to be jealous. I
will care for you--yes, as if you were my son."

"Do not let us say anything more about it, fair Marcoline, but let us go
to bed, for you have never inspired me with so much ardour as now."

"But you must be tired."

"Yes, but not exhaustion, for I was only able to perform the distillation
once."

"I thought you sacrificed twice on that old altar. Poor old woman! she is
still pretty, and I have no doubt that fifty years ago she was one of the
first beauties in France. How foolish of her to be thinking of love at
that age."

"You excited me, but she undid your work even more quickly."

"Are you always obliged to have--a girl beside you when you make love to
her?"

"No; before, there was no question of making a son."

"What? you are going to make her pregnant? That's ridiculous! Does she
imagine that she has conceived?"

"Certainly; and the hope makes her happy."

"What a mad idea! But why did you try to do it three times?"

"I thought to shew my strength, and that if I gazed on you I should not
fail; but I was quite mistaken."

"I pity you for having suffered so much."

"You will renew my strength."

As a matter of fact, I do not know whether to attribute it to the
difference between the old and the young, but I spent a most delicious
night with the beautiful Venetian--a night which I can only compare to
those I passed at Parma with Henriette, and at Muran with the beautiful
nun. I spent fourteen hours in bed, of which four at least were devoted
to expiating the insult I had offered to love. When I had dressed and
taken my chocolate I told Marcoline to dress herself with elegance, and
to expect me in the evening just before the play began. I could see that
she was intensely delighted with the prospect.

I found Madame d'Urfe in bed, dressed with care and in the fashion of a
young bride, and with a smile of satisfaction on her face which I had
never remarked there before.

"To thee, beloved Galtinardus, I owe all my happiness," said she, as she
embraced me.

"I am happy to have contributed to it, divine Semiramis, but you must
remember I am only the agent of the genii."

Thereupon the marchioness began to argue in the most sensible manner, but
unfortunately the foundation of her argument was wholly chimerical.

"Marry me," said she; "you will then be able to be