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: