"Yes, to be sure!"
"I didn't know; so many things are being demolished in these days! Well, then, I repeat: I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis."
"I see that you remembered."
"Why in the devil shouldn't I?"
"In five years one forgets so many things, my friend!"
"In love, that may be; but not in friendship."
"Men forget in friendship, as well as in love. Memory is a rare thing in this world, especially memory of the heart."
"Ah! there you are! the same as ever—no confidence in anything or anybody!"
"Is it my fault, my dear fellow, if my confidence has always been betrayed? Time destroys all our illusions, and in the last five years I have lost an infernal lot of them."
"Well, I haven't lost anything at all. I still adore the fair sex, which, I venture to say, repays my adoration with interest—too earnestly, in fact. For I have a wife—you don't know my wife, I believe? I'll introduce you to her; my dear fellow, she adores me, she idolizes me! It's a genuine passion. When she goes half a day without seeing me, she's as good as dead: she doesn't eat, she pines and languishes, sometimes she weeps even. When I come home, I have to scold her. 'Éléonore,' I say—her name's Éléonore—'why, Nonore, what does this mean? What! can't I stay out a little late with friends, without finding you in tears when I come home?' And she throws her arms round my neck, and says: 'I thought you'd fallen off the top of an omnibus! I beg you, my love, don't ride in the three-sou seats. Go inside, Philémon, I implore you; ride inside; you'll make me so much happier!'—That's the kind of a woman my wife is, and I assure you it's an infernal bore to be loved like that!"