Woman is like a book which, be it good or bad, must begin to please with its title page; if that is not interesting, it does not rouse a desire to read, and that desire is equal in force to the interest the title page in-spires. Woman's title page runs from top to bottom like that of a book, and her feet, which inspire interest in so many men of my stamp, are of the same interest as the edition of the book is to the man of letters. Most men pay no attention to a woman's beautiful feet, and most readers do not notice the edition. Hence women make no mistake in taking such pains over their persons and their clothing, for it is only by these that they can arouse a curiosity to read them in those whom nature at their birth declared worthy of something better than blind-ness.
Now, just as those who have read many books are always curious to read new ones, even if they are bad, as time goes on a man who has loved many women, all of them beautiful, reaches the point of feeling curious aboutugly women if they are new to him. He sees a painted woman. The paint is obvious to him, but it does not put him off. His passion, which has become a vice, is ready with a strong argument in favor of the fraudulent title page. "It is quite possible," he tells himself, "that the book is not as bad as all that; indeed, it may have no need of this absurd artifice." He decides to scan it, he tries to turn over the pages but no! the living book objects; it insists on being read properly, and the "egnomaniac" 22 becomes a victim of coquetry, the mon-strous persecutor of all men who ply the trade of love.
You, Sir, who are a man of intelligence and have read these last twenty lines, which Apollo drew from my pen, permit me to tell you that if they fail to disillusion you, you are lost that is, you will be the victim of the fair sex to the last moment of your life. If that prospect pleases you, I congratulate you.
As I was getting out of bed on April 2nd, the fatal day of my entrance into this world, I saw before me a beauti-ful Greek woman, who told me that her husband, an en-sign, had all the qualities to make him a lieutenant, and that he would be made one were it not that his captain had become his enemy because she refused him certain favors which honor allowed her to grant only to her husband. She shows me his certificates, she asks me to compose a petition for him, which she will herself take to the Savio, and she ends by saying that, as she is poor, she can only reward me for my trouble with her heart. After replying that her heart was the perfect reward for desires, I pro-ceeded with her in the fashion of a man who hopes to be rewarded in advance, and I find only the resistance which a pretty woman makes as a matter of form. After the act I tell her to come back at noon for the petition,and she is punctual. She has no objection to paying me a second time, and toward nightfall, on the excuse that there are some corrections to be made, she comes and rewards me yet again. However, the next day but one after the performance, instead of finding myself re-warded, I find that I am punished and under the neces-sity of putting myself in the hands of a spagyrist, who in six weeks restores me to perfect health. When I was fool enough to reproach the woman with her base con-duct, she laughed and answered that she had only given me what she had, and that it was for me to be wary. But my reader cannot imagine either the pain or the shame which this misfortune caused me. I felt degraded.