"Ha, Lamotte, you've found another learned lady. I thought you were done with precieuses," the Griffon broke in.

"Monsieur Gillet, I am no precieuse, for I call everything by its right name and not by flowery disguises, Monsieur printer of scurrilous pamphlets."

"Please, Mademoiselle, you have wounded me. I spread enlightenment." Griffon put his hand on his breast.

"The Sign of the Reading Griffon? Supposedly printed in The Hague? The griffon of The Hideous Crimes of the Abbe Mariette? The Unspeakable Acts of the Possessed Sisters of Loudon? And La Putaine Errante? Those you call enlightenment? Surely, then, it is you that is the precieux." D'Urbec turned and looked at me appreciatively, then looked back at his friend, the printer, and laughed.

"So, Gillet, you must cry 'touche!' She has caught you fair, this excessively well-read little lady!" exclaimed Cato as he clapped the Griffon on the shoulder. "And you, poor friend, I see by your eyes you fear the divine sister may also be corrupted by the possession of a mind. Consider this, my friend-honest speech is to be commended in a woman, it being the rarest of feminine virtues." He folded his arms and looked me up and down with a sarcastic eye. I glared at him. He saw my glare and laughed again. "Mademoiselle, I must inform you that an intelligent woman has the key to my heart. Especially one who has, of her own volition, read my treatise on the salvation of the state through fiscal reform. Were it not so muddy, I would kneel before you and declare myself, O perceptive, gray-eyed Athena."

"You are all mockers, and I am going home. I am sure my mother would not approve of your acquaintance." I turned to leave. The ragam.u.f.fins had given up and departed.

"Then we will accompany you, to help our dear friend Lamotte press his case-as well as to protect you from the sort of riff-raff one finds in taverns," the Griffon announced.

"Griffon, back off; you hinder me," growled Lamotte.

"Then don't expect me to print your next volume of sonnets," Gillet announced.

"When my plays are famous, I will have another printer publish the complete edition and grow wealthy in your place," Lamotte sniffed.

"Calm, calm, Messieurs. You have reached an impa.s.se where only philosophy can resolve your differences." Cato caught up with the bickering party on my heels.

"Political philosophy? When have political philosophers failed to stir up trouble and sedition? Wars have been fought because of political philosophy," Griffon replied.

I turned the corner into the rue des Marmousets so quickly that they had trouble keeping up with me, involved in their quarrel as they were. Then Cato stepped adroitly in front of me, striking a cla.s.sic pose, with one hand over his heart and the other outstretched as if for oration.

"I appeal to you, Athena. They have wounded me to the quick. Defend me, a poor philosopher, and my works." The speech was mocking, but something quite different flickered deep in his eyes. It frightened me, and I fled from it. We had reached the little door beside the heavy carriage gate into our courtyard.

"You all embarra.s.s me on my own doorstep. Good day, Messieurs."

"Oh dear," said Griffon, looking up and down our house. "It's the Hotel Pasquier. They're very rich here. Petronius, you haven't a chance. Write all you want, you'll never even get an invitation to put your nose in the door." Of course, Petronius. What else would a fellow like this, all ribbons and fancy b.u.t.tons, call himself but after the arbiter elegantarum? But the mustachioed cavalier had pulled a letter out of his shirt front, which he pressed into my hand.

"Mademoiselle, I beg you by all that is holy. Transmit this message to the Beloved Angel Above."

"To Marie-Angelique?"

"Marie-Angelique-oh, I always knew she was an angel. Tell her I'm perishing."

"That's what they all say."

"All? I have a rival? Who is he?"

"Well, the latest one was my tutor. He languished considerably."

"With what result?" cried Petronius, suddenly fierce.

"By mutual agreement, he was sent away to make his fortune selling a scheme of memory training."

"Heart broken, I suppose?" He had regained his lightness of tone once more.

"Oh, I suppose. But he is now tutoring the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds of some provincial count and paying his court to Mademoiselle du Parc, the actress."

"Then he was not worthy of her. I, on the other hand, am deeply worthy. Take my letter, I pray-"

"It will cost you." It was only fair I be repaid for all this public embarra.s.sment.

"Isn't love worth more than mere money?"

"That isn't what I had in mind, Monsieur Petronius. I do you a favor...one that isn't entirely proper...and so you should do one for me in return. And I've been wanting a copy of the Satyricon for a long time, now. It would only be appropriate-"

"Oho, you are a bad girl, Mademoiselle. Anyone caught purchasing the French translation will spend a fine long time in the Chatelet," said Griffon.

"I had in mind the Latin. I can't purchase it myself, you know. I'll even pay you back."

Cato had been looking at me intently, all the while. "And I suppose you read Greek as well, Athena?"

"A little. My last tutor left too soon."

"Then consider that you might graciously offer Petronius here your a.s.sistance on account, lest he languish and die on your doorstep. I'll undertake to get you your naughty book, though it may take a while." Something about his sardonic smile made me confused and angry. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter and slammed the door behind me, all in a moment.

"Oh, what is this?" Marie-Angelique took the note with some surprise.

"Another love letter, I think."

"So now even you are carrying them. Is it from that lovely blond young man who greeted me from his carriage?"

"No, the one with the ribbons and boots that stands in front of the door."

"Oh, him." Marie-Angelique glanced over the letter, then crumpled it and threw it into the cold grate of the fireplace. "Tell me, Genevieve, how does it sound...to be a d.u.c.h.ess?"

"Why, it sounds very good. Who is the d.u.c.h.ess?"

"Mademoiselle de la Valliere became a d.u.c.h.ess, for being the King's favorite and bearing his children."

"The Romans believed the highest adornment a woman could have was her virtue. The n.o.ble Lucretia killed herself rather than suffer the stain of dishonor."

"But we are not ancient Romans, Genevieve, they're all dead. And we're French. Things are different in these modern times."

"They certainly are."

"My, you're sour today, Sister. Don't you believe in the power of love?"

"I believe in the power of logic, Marie-Angelique," I answered curtly as I left the room. I waited until she was gone and then returned to read the crumpled letter in secret. It was poetry, written late at night with drops of candle wax on it. I folded it in between the pages of my Cicero, where no one but me could ever find it.