have not yet reached that point. I am but three-and-twenty, and there
is nothing of the senile fop about me."

The very vehemence of the whim that held possession of him to some
extent reassured him. This strange struggle, these reflections, and
this love in pursuit may perhaps puzzle some persons who are
accustomed to the ways of Paris life; but they may be reminded that
Count Andrea Marcosini was not a Frenchman.

Brought up by two abbes, who, in obedience to a very pious father, had
rarely let him out of their sight, Andrea had not fallen in love with
a cousin at the age of eleven, or seduced his mother's maid by the
time he was twelve; he had not studied at school, where a lad does not
learn only, or best, the subjects prescribed by the State; he had
lived in Paris but a few years, and he was still open to those sudden
but deep impressions against which French education and manners are so
strong a protection. In southern lands a great passion is often born
of a glance. A gentleman of Gascony who had tempered strong feelings
by much reflection had fortified himself by many little recipes
against sudden apoplexies of taste and heart, and he advised the Count
to indulge at least once a month in a wild orgy to avert those storms
of the soul which, but for such precautions, are apt to break out at
inappropriate moments. Andrea now remembered this advice.

"Well," thought he, "I will begin to-morrow, January 1st."



This explains why Count Andrea Marcosini hovered so shyly before
turning down the Rue Froid-Manteau. The man of fashion hampered the