Now the young man enjoined his hostess to tell him where she was taking him. At first she just laughed, but finally she told him: to her husband’s château. The couple had been estranged, but had decided to reconcile; her husband was a bore, however, and she felt a charming young man like himself would liven things up. The young man was intrigued: Madame was an older woman, with a reputation for being rather formal, though he also knew she had a lover, a marquis. Why had she chosen him for this excursion? Her story was not quite credible. Then, as they traveled, she suggested he look out the window at the passing landscape, as she was doing. He had to lean over toward her to do so, and just as he did, the carriage jolted. She grabbed his hand and fell into his arms. She stayed there for a moment, then pulled away from him rather abruptly. After an awkward silence, she said, “Do you intend to convince me of my imprudence in your regard?” He protested that the incident had been an accident and reassured her he would behave himself. In truth, however, having her in his arms had made him think otherwise.

They arrived at the chateau. The husband came to meet them, and the young man expressed his admiration of the building: “What you see is nothing,” Madame interrupted, “I must take you to Monsieur’s apartment.” Before he could ask what she meant, the subject was quickly changed. The husband was indeed a bore, but he excused himself after supper. Now Madame and the young man were alone. She invited him to walk with her in the gardens; it was a splendid evening, and as they walked, she slipped her arm in his. She was not worried that he would take advantage of her, she said, because she knew how attached he was to her good friend the countess. They talked of other things, and then she returned to the topic of his lover: “Is she making you quite happy? Oh, I fear the contrary, and this distresses me. . . . Are you not often the victim of her strange whims?” To the young man’s surprise, Madame began to talk of the countess in a way that made it seem that she had been unfaithful to him (which was something he had suspected). Madame sighed—she regretted saying such things about her friend, and asked him to forgive her; then, as if a new thought had occurred to her, she mentioned a nearby pavilion, a delightful place, full of pleasant memories. But the shame of it was, it was locked and she had no key. And yet they found their way to the pavilion, and lo and behold, the door had been left open. It was dark inside, but the young man could sense that it was a place for trysts. They entered and sank onto a sofa, and before he knew what had come over him, he took her in his arms. Madame seemed to push him away, but then gave in. Finally she came to her senses: they must return to the house. Had he gone too far? He must try to control himself.

As they strolled back to the house, Madame remarked, “What a delicious night we’ve just spent.” Was she referring to what had happened in the pavilion? “There is an even more charming room in the château,” she went on, “but I can’t show you anything,” implying he had been too forward. She had mentioned this room (“Monsieur’s apartment”) several times before; he could not imagine what could be so interesting about it, but by now he was dying to see it and insisted she show it to him. “If you promise to be good,” she replied, her eyes widening. Through the darkness of the house she led him into the room, which, to his delight, was a kind of temple of pleasure: there were mirrors on the walls, trompe l’oeil paintings evoking a forest scene, even a dark grotto, and a garlanded statue of Eros. Overwhelmed by the mood of the place, the young man quickly resumed what he had started in the pavilion, and would have lost all track of time if a servant had not rushed in and warned them that it was getting light outside—Monsieur would soon be up.

They quickly separated. Later that day, as the young man prepared to leave, his hostess said, “Goodbye, Monsieur; I owe you so many pleasures; but I have paid you with a beautiful dream. Now your love summons you to return. . . . Don’t give the Countess cause to quarrel with me.” Reflecting on his experience on the way back, he could not figure out what it meant. He had the vague sensation of having been used, but the pleasures he remembered outweighed his doubts.

Particularly in the early phases of a seduction, learn to make everything you say and do a kind of insinuation. Insinuate doubt with a comment here and there about other people in the victim’s life, making the victim feel vulnerable. Slight physical contact insinuates desire, as does a fleeting but memorable look, or an unusually warm tone of voice, both for the briefest of moments. A passing comment suggests that something about the victim interests you; but keep it subtle, your words revealing a possibility, creating a doubt. You are planting seeds that will take root in the weeks to come. When you are not there, your targets will fantasize about the ideas you have stirred up, and brood upon the doubts. They are slowly being led into your web, unaware that you are in control. How can they resist or become defensive if they cannot even see what is happening?

The way insinuation works is simple: disguised in a banal remark or encounter, a hint is dropped. It is about some emotional issue—a possible pleasure not yet attained, a lack of excitement in a person’s life. The hint registers in the back of the target’s mind, a subtle stab at his or her insecurities; its source is quickly forgotten. It is too subtle to be memorable at the time, and later, when it takes root and grows, it seems to have emerged naturally from the target’s own mind, as if it was there all along. Insinuation lets you bypass people’s natural resistance, for they seem to be listening only to what has originated in themselves. It is a language on its own, communicating directly with the unconscious. No seducer, no persuader, can hope to succeed without mastering the language and art of insinuation.

A strange man once arrived at the court of Louis XV. No one knew anything about him, and his accent and age were unplaceable. He called himself Count Saint-Germain. He was obviously wealthy; all kinds of gems and diamonds glittered on his jacket, his sleeves, his shoes, his fingers. He could play the violin to perfection, paint magnificently. But the most intoxicating thing about him was his conversation.

In truth, the count was the greatest charlatan of the eighteenth century—a man who had mastered the art of insinuation. As he spoke, a word here and there would slip out—a vague allusion to the philosopher’s stone, which turned base metal into gold, or to the elixir of life. He did not say he possessed these things, but he made you associate him with their powers. Had he simply claimed to have them, no one would have believed him and people would have turned away. The count might refer to a man who had died forty years earlier as if he had known him personally; had this been so, the count would have had to be in his eighties, although he looked to be in his forties. He mentioned the elixir of life. . . . he seems so young....

The key to the count’s words was vagueness. He always dropped his hints into a lively conversation, grace notes in an ongoing melody. Only later would people reflect on what he had said. After a while, people started to come to him, inquiring about the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life, not realizing that it was he who had planted these ideas in their minds. Remember: to sow a seductive idea you must engage people’s imaginations, their fantasies, their deepest yearnings. What sets the wheels spinning is suggesting things that people already want to hear—the possibility of pleasure, wealth, health, adventure. In the end, these good things turn out to be precisely what you seem to offer them. They will come to you as if on their own, unaware that you insinuated the idea in their heads.

In 1807, Napoleon Bonaparte decided it was critical for him to win the Russian Czar Alexander I to his side. He wanted two things out of the czar: a peace treaty in which they agreed to carve up Europe and the Middle East; and a marriage alliance, in which he would divorce his wife Josephine and marry into the czar’s family. Instead of proposing these things directly, Napoleon decided to seduce the czar. Using polite social encounters and friendly conversations as his battlefields, he went to work. An apparent slip of the tongue revealed that Josephine could not bear children; Napoleon quickly changed the subject. A comment here and there seemed to suggest a linking of the destinies of France and Russia. Just before they were to part one evening, he talked of his desire for children, sighed sadly, then excused himself for bed, leaving the czar to sleep on this. He escorted the czar to a play on the themes of glory, honor, and empire; now, in later conversations, he could disguise his insinuations under the cover of discussing the play. Within a few weeks, the czar was speaking to his ministers of a marriage alliance and a treaty with France as if they were his own ideas.

Slips of the tongue, apparently inadvertent “sleep on it” comments, alluring references, statements for which you quickly apologize—all of these have immense insinuating power. They get under people’s skin like a poison, and take on a life of their own. The key to succeeding with your insinuations is to make them when your targets are at their most relaxed or distracted, so that they are not aware of what is happening. Polite banter is often the perfect front for this; people are thinking about what they will say next, or are absorbed in their own thoughts. Your insinuations will barely register, which is how you want it.

In one of his early campaigns, John F. Kennedy addressed a group of veterans. Kennedy’s brave exploits during World War II—the PT-109 incident had made him a war hero—were known to all; but in the speech, he talked of the other men on the boat, never mentioning himself. He knew, however, that what he had done was on everyone’s mind, because in fact he had put it there. Not only did his silence on the subject make them think of it on their own, it made Kennedy seem humble and modest, qualities that go well with heroism. In seduction, as the French courtesan Ninon de l’Enclos advised, it is better not to talk about your love for a person. Let your target read it in your manner. Your silence on the subject will have more insinuating power than if you had addressed it directly.

Not only words insinuate; pay attention to gestures and looks. Madame Récamier’s favorite technique was to keep her words banal and the look in her eyes enticing. The flow of conversation would keep men from thinking too deeply about these occasional looks, but they would be haunted by them. Lord Byron had his famous “underlook”: while everyone was discussing some uninteresting subject, he would seem to hang his head, but then a young woman (the target) would see him glancing upward at her, his head still tilted. It was a look that seemed dangerous, challenging, but also ambiguous; many women were hooked by it. The face speaks its own language. We are used to trying to read people’s faces, which are often better indicators of their feelings than what they say, which is so easy to control. Since people are always reading your looks, use them to transmit the insinuating signals you choose.

Finally, the reason insinuation works so well is not just that it bypasses people’s natural resistance. It is also the language of pleasure. There is too little mystery in the world; too many people say exactly what they feel or want. We yearn for something enigmatic, for something to feed our fantasies. Because of the lack of suggestion and ambiguity in daily life, the person who uses them suddenly seems to have something alluring and full of promise. It is a kind of titillating game—what is this person up to? What does he or she mean? Hints, suggestions, and insinuations create a seductive atmosphere, signaling that their victim is no longer involved in the routines of daily life but has entered another realm.