"Do ye twain get to bed," quoth Helène. "I will couch on the divan."
"Oh!" cried Hedvige. "Think not so. Our fate must be exactly equal."
"Yea, beloved Helène," said I, embracing her. "I love thee both with equal ardour, and these ceremonies but waste the time wherein I should be convincing ye of my passion. Follow my example. I am about to disrobe and place myself in the midst of the bed. Come lie beside me, and ye will see if I love ye as ye are worthy to be loved. If all be safe, I will remain till ye send me away, but whate'er ye do, of your mercy extinguish not the light."
In the twinkling of an eye, all the while discussing the theory of shame with Hedvige the theologian, I presented myself to their gaze in the costume of Adam. Hedvige, blushing but fearing, perchance, to depreciate herself in my opinion by any further reserve, parted with the last shred of modesty, citing the opinion of St. Clement Alexandrinus, who held that in the shirt lay the seat of shame.
I praised unstintingly her charms and the perfection of her form, thereby hoping to encourage Helène, who was disrobing but slowly; but a charge of mock modesty from her cousin had more effect than all my praises. At length this Venus was in a state of nature, covering her most secret parts with one hand, concealing one breast with the other, and seeming most sadly shamed of all she could not conceal. Her modest confusion, this strife twixt expiring modesty and growing passion, enchanted me.
Hedvige was taller than Helène, her skin was
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