“Your poor gr-ndm-ther was right just now, when she said she was not my first love.  ’Twas one of those banale expressions” (here Mr. P. blushed once more) “which we use to women.  We tell each she is our first passion.  They reply with a similar illusory formula.  No man is any woman’s first love; no woman any man’s.  We are in love in our nurse’s arms, and women coquette with their eyes before their tongue can form a word.  How could your lovely relative love me?  I was far, far too old for her.  I am older than I look.  I am so old that you would not believe my age were I to tell you.  I have loved many and many a woman before your relative.  It has not always been fortunate for them to love me.  Ah, Sophronia!  Round the dreadful circus where you fell, and whence I was dragged corpse-like by the heels, there sat multitudes more savage than the lions which mangled your sweet form!  Ah, tenez! when we marched to the terrible stake together at Valladolid—­the Protestant and the J—­ But away with memory!  Boy! it was happy for thy grandam that she loved me not.

“During that strange period,” he went on, “when the teeming Time was great with the revolution that was speedily to be born, I was on a mission in Paris with my excellent, my maligned friend Cagliostro.  Mesmer was one of our band.  I seemed to occupy but an obscure rank in it:  though, as you know, in secret societies the humble man may be a chief and director—­the ostensible leader but a puppet moved by unseen hands.  Never mind who was chief, or who was second.  Never mind my age.  It boots not to tell it:  why shall I expose myself to your scornful incredulity—­or reply to your questions in words that are familiar to you, but which yet you cannot understand?  Words are symbols of things which you know, or of things which you don’t know.  If you don’t know them, to speak is idle.” (Here I confess Mr. P. spoke for exactly thirty-eight minutes, about physics, metaphysics, language, the origin and destiny of man, during which time I was rather bored, and, to relieve my ennui, drank a half glass or so of wine.) “Love, friend, is the fountain of youth!  It may not happen to me once—­once in an age:  but when I love, then I am young.  I loved when I was in Paris.  Bathilde, Bathilde, I loved thee—­ah, how fondly!  Wine, I say, more wine!  Love is ever young.  I was a boy at the little feet of Bathilde de Bechamel—­the fair, the fond, the fickle, ah, the false!” The strange old man’s agony was here really terrific, and he showed himself much more agitated than he had been when speaking about my gr-ndm-th-r.

“I thought Blanche might love me.  I could speak to her in the language of all countries, and tell her the lore of all ages.  I could trace the nursery legends which she loved up to their Sanscrit source, and whisper to her the darkling mysteries of Egyptian Magi.  I could chant for her the wild chorus that rang in the dishevelled Eleusinian revel:  I could tell her and I would, the watchword never known but to one woman, the Saban Queen, which Hiram breathed in the abysmal ear of Solomon—­You don’t attend.  Psha! you have drunk too much wine!” Perhaps I may as well own that I was not attending, for he had been carrying on for about fifty-seven minutes; and I don’t like a man to have all the talk to himself.