In all those women who were half masculine,
spirituality revealed itself only in the eyes. All the rest remained
material.
In point of amusing incidents, there is still at Chenonceaux, in Diane
de Poitiers's room, the wide canopy bedstead of the royal favourite,
done in white and red. If it belonged to me, it would be very hard for
me not to use it once in a while. To sleep in the bed of Diane de
Poitiers, even though it be empty, is worth as much as sleeping in that
of many more palpable realities. Moreover, has it not been said that all
the pleasure in these things was only imagination? Then, can you
conceive of the peculiar and historical voluptuousness, for one who
possesses some imagination, to lay his head on the pillow that belonged
to the mistress of Francis the First, and to stretch his limbs on her
mattress? (Oh! how willingly I would give all the women in the world for
the mummy of Cleopatra!) But I would not dare to touch, for fear of
breaking them, the porcelains belonging to Catherine de Medicis, in the
dining-room, nor place my foot in the stirrup of Francis the First, for
fear it might remain there, nor put my lips to the mouth-piece of the
huge trumpet in the fencing-room, for fear of rupturing my lungs.
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