An old retired gendarme who had an inn in the next
village, and a pretty daughter, was arrested and shot.
LASTING LOVE
It was the end of the dinner that opened the shooting
season. The Marquis de Bertrans with his guests
sat around a brightly lighted table, covered with
fruit and flowers. The conversation drifted to
love. Immediately there arose an animated discussion,
the same eternal discussion as to whether it were
possible to love more than once. Examples were
given of persons who had loved once; these were offset
by those who had loved violently many times.
The men agreed that passion, like sickness, may attack
the same person several times, unless it strikes to
kill. This conclusion seemed quite incontestable.
The women, however, who based their opinion on poetry
rather than on practical observation, maintained that
love, the great passion, may come only once to mortals.
It resembles lightning, they said, this love.
A heart once touched by it becomes forever such a
waste, so ruined, so consumed, that no other strong
sentiment can take root there, not even a dream.
The marquis, who had indulged in many love affairs,
disputed this belief.
“I tell you it is possible to love several times
with all one’s heart and soul. You quote
examples of persons who have killed themselves for
love, to prove the impossibility of a second passion.
I wager that if they had not foolishly committed suicide,
and so destroyed the possibility of a second experience,
they would have found a new love, and still another,
and so on till death. It is with love as with
drink. He who has once indulged is forever a
slave. It is a thing of temperament.”
They chose the old doctor as umpire. He thought
it was as the marquis had said, a thing of temperament.
“As for me,” he said, “I once knew
of a love which lasted fifty-five years without one
day’s respite, and which ended only with death.”
The wife of the marquis clasped her hands.
“That is beautiful! Ah, what a dream to
be loved in such a way! What bliss to live for
fifty-five years enveloped in an intense, unwavering
affection! How this happy being must have blessed
his life to be so adored!”
The doctor smiled.
“You are not mistaken, madame, on this point
the loved one was a man. You even know him; it
is Monsieur Chouquet, the chemist. As to the woman,
you also know her, the old chair-mender, who came
every year to the chateau.” The enthusiasm
of the women fell. Some expressed their contempt
with “Pouah!” for the loves of common
people did not interest them. The doctor continued:
“Three months ago I was called to the deathbed
of the old chair-mender. The priest had preceded
me. She wished to make us the executors of her
will. In order that we might understand her conduct,
she told us the story of her life. It is most
singular and touching: Her father and mother
were both chair-menders. She had never lived in
a house. As a little child she wandered about
with them, dirty, unkempt, hungry. They visited
many towns, leaving their horse, wagon and dog just
outside the limits, where the child played in the grass
alone until her parents had repaired all the broken
chairs in the place. They seldom spoke, except
to cry, ‘Chairs! Chairs! Chair-mender!’
