"Come here, Joseph," cried the marchioness, approaching a servant who
carried an overcoat lined with silk. "The marquis is probably feeling
the cold."
The old marquis put on his overcoat, buttoned it up, and taking my
arm, led me to the sunny side of the terrace.
"In your work," he continued, "you have doubtless spoken of the love
of a young man. Well, if you wish to act up to the scope which you
give to your work--in the word ec--elec--"
"Eclectic," I said, smiling, seeing he could not remember this
philosophic term.
"I know the word well!" he replied. "If then you wish to keep your vow
of eclecticism, you should be willing to express certain virile ideas
on the subject of love which I will communicate to you, and I will not
grudge you the benefit of them, if benefit there be; I wish to
bequeath my property to you, but this will be all that you will get of
it."
"There is no money fortune which is worth as much as a fortune of
ideas if they be valuable ideas! I shall, therefore, listen to you
with a grateful mind."
"There is no such thing as love," pursued the old man, fixing his gaze
upon me. "It is not even a sentiment, it is an unhappy necessity,
which is midway between the needs of the body and those of the soul.
But siding for a moment with your youthful thoughts, let us try to
reason upon this social malady.
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