“Monsieur!” said the young woman, supplicating him, and clasping her hands together; “monsieur, in the name of heaven, by the name of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman depart–there–there is midnight striking–that is the hour at which I am expected.”
“Madame,” said the young man, boding; “I can refuse nothing asked of me thus; be satisfied, I will depart.”
“But, you will not follow me; you will not watch me?”
“I will return home instantly.”
“Ah! I was quite sure you were a good and brave man,” said Madame Bonacieux, holding out her hand to him, and placing the other upon the knocker of a little door almost hidden in the wall.
D’Artagnan seized the hand that was held out to him, and kissed it ardently.
“Ah! I wish I had never seen you!” cried D’Artagnan, with that ingenuous roughness,which women often prefer to the affections of politeness, because it betrays the depth of the thought, and proves that feeling prevails over reason.
“Well!” resumed Madame Bonacieux, in a voice that was almost caressing, and pressing the hand of D’Artagnan, who had not left hold of hers, “well! I will not say as much as you do: what is lost for to-day may not be lost forever. Who knows, when I shall be some day at liberty, that I may not satisfy your curiosity?”. . .
–The Three Musketeers
Alexandre Dumas (pere) both a great literary master and a master of the venereal arts boffed forty women in forty known affairs and likely more than this in unkown affairs. Such a pair of stone had he, that one such bastard, a literary giant in his own right, Alexandre Dumas (fils), bears the name of his father. This in the middle of the 19th century France.
Also of note, though best known for the D’Artagnan romantic cycle (Three Musketeers, Man in the Iron Mask, et al) Dumas hustled. His hustle, like that of master artists from bygone years, consisted of a literary factory so that when considering the breadth of Dumas’ 100,000 word corpus remember that his stamp is upon them all but not his pen. Roosh might consider setting himself up with a corps of his own and press out Bangs for the remaining couple hundred countries Food for thought.
Veritas numquam perit,