“His sixtieth birthday came, and it was then he found that the garden of pleasure, that had offered so many charming flowers for his plucking, had drawn to its end.  Behind, there were only souvenirs; before, nothing but barren fields.  Suddenly he remembered that he had forgotten to marry.  A name such as his must not sink into oblivion.  He must have a wife, young and innocent.  He did not seek love; in this his heart was as a cinder on a dead hearth.  He desired an ornament to grace his home, innocence to protect his worldly honor.  Strange, how these men who have tasted all fruits, the bitter and the sweet, should in their old age crave the companionship of youth and innocence.  So he cast about.  Being rich, he waived the question of any dowry save beauty and birth.  A certain lady-in-waiting, formerly, to the queen, solved the problem for him.  In a month her daughter would leave her convent, fresh and innocent as the dews of morning.”

“O rare poet!” interrupted the Chevalier, with a droll turn of the head.

“This pleased the noble greatly.  Men who have never found their ideals grow near-sighted at sixty.  The marriage was celebrated quietly; few persons had ever heard of Gabrielle de Montbazon.  Monsieur le Comte returned to Paris and reopened his hotel.  But he kept away from court and mingled only with those who were in disfavor.  Among his friends he wore his young wife as one would wear a flower.  He evinced the same pride in showing her off as he would in showing off a fine horse, a famous picture, a rare drinking-cup.  Madame was at first dazzled; it was such a change from convent life.  He kept wondrous guard over her the first year.  He never had any young companions at the hotel; they were all antique like himself.  Paul, there is something which age refuses to understand.  Youth, like a flower, does not thrive in dusty nooks, in dark cellars.”

“How about mushrooms?  They grow in cellars; and the thought of them makes my mouth water.”

“Paul, you are unkind to laugh.”

“Have I not told you that I am drunk?  Go on.”

“Well, then, youth is like a flower; it must have air and sunshine, the freedom of its graceful stem.  Nature does not leap from May to December.  The year culminates in the warm breath of summer.  Youth culminates in the sunshine of love.  The year bereft of summer is less mournful than youth deprived of love.  So.  A young girl, married to a man old enough to be her grandsire, misses the glory of her summer, the realization of her convent dreams.  Gradually she comprehends that she has been cheated, cruelly cheated.  What happens?  She begins by comparing her husband who is old to the gallants who are young.  This is but natural.”

“And exciting,” interpolated the Chevalier.