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Her name was
Clothilde. We met in a manner outrageous to Gallic propriety, as I used
to climb over the garden wall to the peril of my epidermis. We loved. We
were parted by stern parents--not mine--and Clothilde was packed off to
the good Sisters who had previously had care of her education. Now she
is fat and happy, and the wife of a banker and the mother of children.
But the romance was sad and bad and mad enough while it lasted; and when
Clothilde was (figuratively) dragged from my arms I cursed and swore and
out-Heroded Herod, played Termagant, and summoned the heavens to fall
down and crush me miserable beneath their weight. And then her brother
challenged me to fight a duel, whereupon, as the most worshipped of all
She's had not received a ha'porth of harm at my hands, I called him a
silly ass and threatened to break his head if he interfered any more
in my legitimate despair. I smile at it now; but it was real at
two-and-twenty--as real, I take it, as Dale's consuming passion for the
lady of the circus.


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