You Slept With Her Didn't You

I am at my wit's end. When I returned to Paris, I went down to the Seine in the evening as I usually do to have a little chat with "Notre Dame Cathedral," but she refuses to speak with me—not a single word. At first I could not imagine what was bothering her, but after a few days I realized what the problem is. She is jealous; that's right, she thinks that I have fallen in love with some buildings in New York, and that I don't care about her anymore. Finally, last evening I got it out of her.
She asked, "Why do you only come to see me in the evening?"
I told her that I like the evening because in the evening light all of her forms merge together in a harmonious whole.
"Oh," she said petulantly, "So in the day time I'm ugly, is that it?"
She thinks I'm in love with the Chrysler Building, or some such thing and that I prefer "neo" architecture now, to the gothic. She says, "I know I'm gothic, I know that I am covered over with sculpture that is all out of proportion, but that didn't bother Victor Hugo, and believe me, he was a much better lover than you could ever be. Besides, the Chrysler Building may be young and easy to look at all at once, but my architecture is based on much more complex ideas."
I can't go on like this; I don't know what to do. It would be one thing if I really was in love with the Chrysler Building; its huge simple arches are so restful.
As a matter of fact, I was visiting a friend in New York recently, whose office window faces the Chrysler building, and while waiting for him and looking at the top of that building for a long time, I finally fell asleep in a chair by the window.
But last night when I was trying to explain my feelings about the Chrysler Building to "Notra Dame" she suddenly shouted,
"You slept with her, didn't you!"