STRANGER.

Ah, 'tis so With us all. 'Tis the sinner that best knew the world At Twenty, whose lip is, at sixty, most curl'd With disdain of its follies. You stay at Luchon?

ALFRED.

A day or two only.

STRANGER.

The season is done.

ALFRED.

Already?

STRANGER.

'Twas shorter this year than the last.

Folly soon wears her shoes out. She dances so fast We are all of us tired.

ALFRED.

You know the place well?

STRANGER.

I have been there two seasons.

ALFRED.

Pray who is the Belle Of the Baths at this moment?

STRANGER.

The same who has been The belle of all places in which she is seen; The belle of all Paris last winter; last spring The belle of all Baden.

ALFRED.

An uncommon thing!

STRANGER.

Sir, an uncommon beauty!... I rather should say An uncommon character. Truly, each day One meets women whose beauty is equal to hers, But none with the charm of Lucile de Nevers.

ALFRED.

Madame de Nevers!

STRANGER.

Do you know her?

ALFRED.

I know Or, rather, I knew her--a long time ago.

I almost forget...

STRANGER.

What a wit! what a grace In her language! her movements! what play in her face!

And yet what a sadness she seems to conceal!

ALFRED.

You speak like a lover.

STRANGER.

I speak as I feel, But not like a lover. What interests me so In Lucile, at the same time forbids me, I know, To give to that interest, whate'er the sensation, The name we men give to an hour's admiration, A night's pa.s.sing pa.s.sion, an actress's eyes, A dancing girl's ankles, a fine lady's sighs.

ALFRED.

Yes, I quite comprehend. But this sadness--this shade Which you speak of?... it almost would make me afraid Your gay countrymen, Sir, less adroit must have grown, Since when, as a stripling, at Paris, I own I found in them terrible rivals,--if yet They have all lack'd the skill to console this regret (If regret be the word I should use), or fulfil This desire (if desire be the word), which seems still To endure unappeased. For I take it for granted, From all that you say, that the will was not wanted.

XV.

The stranger replied, not without irritation: "I have heard that an Englishman--one of your nation I presume--and if so, I must beg you, indeed, To excuse the contempt which I..."

ALFRED.

Pray, Sir, proceed With your tale. My compatriot, what was his crime?

STRANGER.

Oh, nothing! His folly was not so sublime As to merit that term. If I blamed him just now, It was not for the sin, but the silliness.

ALFRED.

How?

STRANGER.

I own I hate Botany. Still,... admit, Although I myself have no pa.s.sion for it, And do not understand, yet I cannot despise The cold man of science, who walks with his eyes All alert through a garden of flowers, and strips The lilies' gold tongues, and the roses' red lips, With a ruthless dissection; since he, I suppose, Has some purpose beyond the mere mischief he does.

But the stupid and mischievous boy, that uproots The exotics, and tramples the tender young shoots, For a boy's brutal pastime, and only because He knows no distinction 'twixt heartsease and haws,-- One would wish, for the sake of each nursling so nipp'd, To catch the young rascal and have him well whipp'd!