Monsieur Tudesco heard him out, lapping up a glass of Chartreuse drop by drop the while, and taking snuff from a screw of paper.  At times he would nod his head in approval and go on listening with the air of a man watching and waiting his opportunity.  When he judged that at last, after tedious repetitions and numberless fresh starts, the other’s confidences were exhausted, he assumed a look of gravity, and laying his fine hand with a gesture as of priestly benediction on the young man’s shoulder: 

“Ah! my young friend,” he said, “if I thought that what you feel were true love... but I do not,” and he shook his head and let his hand drop.

Jean protested.  To suffer so, and not to be really in love?

Monsieur Tudesco repeated: 

“If I thought that this were true love... but I do not, so far.”

Jean answered with great vehemence; he talked of death and plunging a dagger in his heart.

Monsieur Tudesco reiterated for the third time: 

“I do not believe it is true love.”

Then Jean fell into a fury and began to rumple and tear at his waistcoat as if he would bare his heart for inspection.  Monsieur Tudesco took his hands and addressed him soothingly: 

“Well, well, my young friend, since it is true love you feel, I will help you.  I am a great tactician, and if King Carlo Alberto had read a certain memorial I sent him on military matters he would have won the battle of Novara.  He did not read my memorial, and the battle was lost, but it was a glorious defeat.  How happy the sons of Italy who died for their mother in that thrice holy battle!  The hymns of poets and the tears of women made enviable their obsequies.  I say it:  what a noble, what a heroic thing is youth!  What flames divine escape from young bosoms to rise to the Creator!  I admire above everything young folk who throw themselves into ventures of war and sentiment with the impetuosity natural to their age.”

Tasso, Novara, and the diva so beloved of cardinals mingled confusedly in Jean Servien’s heated brain, and in a burst of sublime if fuddled enthusiasm he wrung the old villain’s hand.  Everything had grown indistinct; he seemed to be swimming in an element of molten metal.

Monsieur Tudesco, who at the moment was imbibing a glass of kuemmel, pointed to his waistcoat of ticking.

“The misfortune is,” he observed, “that I am garbed like a philosopher.  How show myself in such a costume among elegant females?  ’Tis a sad pity! for it would be an easy matter for me to pay my respects to an actress at an important theatre.  I have translated the Gerusalemme Liberata, that masterpiece of Torquato Tasso’s.  I could propose to the great actress whom you love and who is worthy of your love, at least I hope so, a French adaptation of the Myrrha of the celebrated Alfieri.  What eloquence, what fire in that tragedy!  The part of Myrrha is sublime and terrible; she will be eager to play it.  Meantime, you translate Myrrha into French verse; then I introduce you with your manuscript into the sanctuary of Melpomene, when you bring with you a double gift—­fame and love!  What a dream, oh! fortunate young man!...  But alas! ’tis but a dream, for how should I enter a lady’s boudoir in this rude and sordid guise?”