Coleman, as my daughter says, you are English; you are
excusable. I will not dispute with you, but I will tell you a little
story."
"Will you not take some more beer, Mr. Caillaud, before you begin?"
"No, thank you, madam, I have finished."
Caillaud pushed away his plate, on which three parts of what was
given him, including all the ham, remained untouched, and began--his
Gallicisms and broken English have been corrected in the version now
before the reader:
"In 1790 a young man named Dupin was living in Paris, in the house of
his father, who was a banker there. The Dupins were rich, and the
son kept a mistress, a girl named Victorine. Dupin the younger had
developed into one of the worst of men. He was strictly correct in
all his dealings, sober, guilty of none of the riotous excesses which
often distinguish youth at that age, and most attentive to business;
but he was utterly self-regarding, hard, and emotionless. What could
have induced Victorine to love him I do not know; but love him she
did, and her love instead of being a folly, was her glory. If love
were always to be in proportion to desert, measured out in strictest
and justest huckstering conformity therewith, what a poor thing it
would be! The love at least of a woman is as the love of the Supreme
Himself, and just as magnificent.
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