Autumn had already begun to strip the trees
of their foliage, and was scattering before our eyes the yellow leaves
of his garland; but the sun nevertheless filled the air with grateful
warmth.
"Well, is your work finished?" asked the old man, in the unctuous
tones peculiar to men of the ancient aristocracy.
And with these words he gave a sardonic smile, as if for commentary.
"Very nearly, sir," I replied. "I have come to the philosophic
situation, which you appear to have reached, but I confess that I--"
"You are searching for ideas?" he added--finishing for me a sentence,
which I confess I did not know how to end.
"Well," he continued, "you may boldly assume, that on arriving at the
winter of his life, a man--a man who thinks, I mean--ends by denying
that love has any existence, in the wild form with which our illusions
invested it!"
"What! would you deny the existence of love on the day after that of
marriage?"
"In the first place, the day after would be the very reason; but my
marriage was a commercial speculation," replied he, stooping to speak
into my ear. "I have thereby purchased the care, the attention, the
services which I need; and I am certain to obtain all the
consideration my age demands; for I have willed all my property to my
nephew, and as my wife will be rich only during my life, you can
imagine how--"
I turned on the old marquis a look so piercing that he wrung my hand
and said: "You seem to have a good heart, for nothing is certain in
this life--"
"Well, you may be sure that I have arranged a pleasant surprise for
her in my will," he replied, gayly.
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