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!"