I address him in Italian, and he answers very wittily, but his way of speaking makes me smile, and I tell him why.

He expressed himself exactly in the style of Boccacio.

My remark pleases him, but I soon prove to him that it is not the right way to speak, however perfect may have been the language of that ancient writer.

In less than a quarter of an hour we are excellent friends, for we find that our tastes are the same.
My new friend was a poet as I was; he was an admirer of Italian literature, while I admired the French.
We exchanged addresses, and promise to see one another very often.
I see a crowd in one corner of the garden, everybody standing still and looking up.

I enquire from my friend whether there is anything wonderful going on.
"These persons are watching the meridian; everyone holds his watch in his hand in order to regulate it exactly at noon." "Is there not a meridian everywhere ?" "Yes, but the meridian of the Palais-Royal is the most exact." I laugh heartily.
"Why do you laugh ?" "Because it is impossible for all meridians not to be the same.