Little Poems in Prose

XLII PORTRAITS OF MISTRESSES IN a man’s boudoir, that is to say, in the smoking-room of a fashionable gambling hell, four men were smoking and drinking. They were not precisely old or young, they bore that unmistakable distinction which belongs to the veterans of Marshal Joy, that indescribable—I know not what to call it—that cold and banter- ing sadness which clearly says, “We have lived strongly, and we seek something to admire and to respect.” One of them turned the conversation to the subject of women. It would have been more philosophical not to speak of it at all, but many witty persons after drinking do not despise commonplace talk. At such times one listens to whoever is speaking as one listens to dance music. “Every man,” one of them was saying, “has passed through the age of Chérubin; I mean the time when, in default of dryads, one kisses trunks of trees without disgust; that is the first grade of love; in the second grade one begins