As soon as he enters the room, no matter what he be (and can it matter?): "Behold," I say to the slave, "what a handsome man! and how happy a courtesan is."
I call him Adonis, Ares or Herakles, according to his face, or the Old Man of the Seas, if his locks are silver-pale. And then what disdain I show for frivolous youth!
"Ah!" I say, "if tomorrow I had no need to pay my florist or my goldsmith, how I should love to say to you: 'I do not want your gold! I am your slave, impassioned!'"
Then, when he has clasped his arms behind my shoulders, I see a handsome boatman, like an image most divine, passing across the starry sky of my transparent lids.