What this woman, this extravagant thing, this libidinous dreamer, a virgin until opportunity
occurred, this bit of flesh as yet unfreed, this bold creature under a princess's cornet,
this Diana by pride, as yet untaken by the first comer, just because chance had so willed,
this * of a low-lived king, who had not the intellect to keep his place, this
duchess by a lucky hit, who, being a fine lady,
played the goddess, and who, had she been poor, would have been a prostitute, this lady
more or less, this robber of a prescribed man's goods, this overbearing strumpet, because
one day he, Barkin Fedro, had no chance.
Not money enough to buy his dinner, and to get lodging.
She had had the impudence to seat him in her house at the corner of a table, and to put
him up in some hole in her intolerant palace.
Where?
Never mind where.
Perhaps in the barn.

Perhaps in the cellar.
Perhaps does it matter?
A little better than her valets.
A little worse than her horses.
She had abused his distress, his Barkin Fedros.
In hastening to do him treacherous good.
A thing which the rich do in order to humiliate the poor, and to tie them like curs led by
a string.
Besides, what did the service she rendered him cost her?
A service is worth what it costs.
She had spare rooms in her house.
She had spare rooms in her house.



She came to bark at Fedro's aid.
A great thing indeed!
Had she eaten a spoonful the less of turtle soup for it?
Had she deprived herself of anything in the hateful overflowing of her superfluous luxuries?
No!
She had added to it.
No!
To it, a vanity, a luxury, a good action like a ring on a finger, the relief of a man of wit.