He spoke with bitterness and contempt, as he used never to speak of anyone.
I could not help sympathising with him, though visibly the cloth was wearing threadbare. He asked me now at once for money, and a little later again and again. Formerly he had invented pretexts; he had not received his allowance when he expected it, or he was bothered by a bill and so forth; but now he simply begged and begged, railing the while at fortune. It was distressing. He wanted money constantly, and spent it as always like water, without a thought.
I asked him one day whether he had seen much of his soldier boy since he had returned to Paris.
"I have seen him, Frank, but not often," and he laughed gaily. "It's a farce-comedy; sentiment always begins romantically and ends in laughter—tabulae solvuntur risu. I taught him so much, Frank, that he was made a corporal and forthwith a nursemaid fell in love with his stripes. He's devoted to her: I suppose he likes to play teacher in his turn."
"And so the great romantic passion comes to this tame conclusion?"
"What would you, Frank? Whatever begins must also end."
"Is there anyone else?" I asked, "or have you learned reason at last?"
"Of course there's always someone else, Frank: change is the essence of passion: the reason you talk of is merely another name for impotence."