The almond eyes of the poet spy on the courting couple.
‘I suffer! Stabbing pain tears my heart apart! My sorrow gnaws with greedy teeth at the thread of my life...’ Jean-François scribbles into his omnipresent notebook.
There is genuine grief in this hyperbolic tale of woe. Treasures are hidden under the grand sentiments’ parade of our charming exhibitionist: loyalty, fidelity, true love.
All smiles, Anne de Longueville whirls about the salon, emanating the fragrance of her radiant being. Zephyr is less winged than the Princess, so young, so fresh, so pure, sampling life like a sip of a sparkling Burgundy wine. Now she has stopped by an opaline jar to taste the rose-jam within.
’A dream of a woman, sculptured out of the finest Carrara marble. Tender and sprightly as a Vivaldi toccata,’ sighs the poet.
‘Flimsy creature, fluttering in any breeze,’ La Rochefoucauld disapproves of Anne’s joy of life with a sombre glance. ‘I must have gone off my head getting involved with this scatterbrained coquette! What kind of ally can I possibly find in this nitwit?’
Overflowing with love and devotion, Anne rejoins the man of her heart.
“I beg you, dearest, try not to show your feelings off!” The Duke rebuffs her and leaves the salon to brood on a woman’s flimsiness.