“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.
“Come here, Joseph,” cried the marchioness, approaching a servant who carried an overcoat lined with silk. “The marquis is probably feeling the cold.”