The two men were thus left alone. They decided to smoke, for they were both a little affected by the pathos of the situation.
“Explain Robert,” said his lordship, as they returned to the dining-room, “explain that kind of love. You are an artist.”
“Well, it isn't my way,” rejoined the other, with a forced laugh, “but there are many manifestations of personal magnetism.”
“This kind is very interesting,” said Reckage, “although it is, of course, high-flown. Orange is romantic and scrupulous—he knows next to nothing of the sensual life; and that next to nothing is merely a source of disgust and remorse. You follow me?”
“Perfectly,” said Rennes. “It is a question of temperament. The wonder is that he has not entered, in some delirium of renunciation, the priesthood.”
“That would mean, for his gifts, a closed career. It beats my wits to guess how this marriage will turn out. He is madly in love. He has suffered frightfully. Too much moral anguish has a depraving effect in the long run.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
“I think so, at any rate. Now many a decent sort of fellow can get along well enough—if he has a woman to his taste and wine which he considers good. You observe I condense the situation as much as possible. But Orange is different.”
“Not so different—except in degree, or experience. At present, he oscillates between the woe of love and the joy of life. You compared him to St. Augustine. St. Augustine never pretended that earthly happiness was a delusion. He knew better. He said, ‘Do not trust it, but seek the happiness which hath no end.’ Personally, I can accept with gratitude as much as I can get. ‘Is not the life of men upon earth all trial, without any interval?’ This may be; yet it is something to learn how to sympathise with happiness. Our best men and women devote themselves too exclusively to the diagnosis of misery.”
“You have thought a lot, I can see,” said Reckage.