"What, do not I love you, Josepha?" said the Duke in a low voice.
"You, perhaps, may love me truly," said she in his ear, and she
smiled. "But I do not love you in the way they describe, with such
love as makes the world dark in the absence of the man beloved. You
are delightful to me, useful--but not indispensable; and if you were
to throw me over to-morrow, I could have three dukes for one."
"Is true love to be found in Paris?" asked Leon de Lora. "Men have not
even time to make a fortune; how can they give themselves over to true
love, which swamps a man as water melts sugar? A man must be
enormously rich to indulge in it, for love annihilates him--for
instance, like our Brazilian friend over there. As I said long ago,
'Extremes defeat--themselves.' A true lover is like an eunuch; women
have ceased to exist for him. He is mystical; he is like the true
Christian, an anchorite of the desert!--See our noble Brazilian."
Every one at table looked at Henri Montes de Montejanos, who was shy
at finding every eye centred on him.
"He has been feeding there for an hour without discovering, any more
than an ox at pasture, that he is sitting next to--I will not say, in
such company, the loveliest--but the freshest woman in all Paris."
"Everything is fresh here, even the fish; it is what the house is
famous for," said Carabine.
Baron Montes looked good-naturedly at the painter, and said:
"Very good! I drink to your very good health," and bowing to Leon de
Lora, he lifted his glass of port wine and drank it with much dignity.
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