P. spoke for exactly
thirty-eight minutes, about physics, metaphysics, language, the origin
and destiny of man, during which time I was rather bored, and, to
relieve my ennui, drank a half glass or so of wine.) "LOVE, friend, is
the fountain of youth! It may not happen to me once--once in an age:
but when I love, then I am young. I loved when I was in Paris. Bathilde,
Bathilde, I loved thee--ah, how fondly! Wine, I say, more wine! Love is
ever young. I was a boy at the little feet of Bathilde de Bechamel--the
fair, the fond, the fickle, ah, the false!" The strange old man's agony
was here really terrific, and he showed himself much more agitated than
he had been when speaking about my gr-ndm-th-r.
"I thought Blanche might love me. I could speak to her in the language
of all countries, and tell her the lore of all ages. I could trace the
nursery legends which she loved up to their Sanscrit source, and whisper
to her the darkling mysteries of Egyptian Magi. I could chant for her
the wild chorus that rang in the dishevelled Eleusinian revel: I could
tell her and I would, the watchword never known but to one woman, the
Saban Queen, which Hiram breathed in the abysmal ear of Solomon--You
don't attend.
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