Another (the most unpleasant and ugliest person here) has chosen me for
the confidant of his past amours; he gives me the names and dates and
all. The less I listen the more he confides. He makes me sick. What can
I do to prevent his believing that I believe him? I am tired of killing
people for lying about women. If I call him a liar and a cad, it may
wake in him Heaven knows what dormant frenzy--for I am quite in the dark
as to the nature of his mental infirmity.
Another, a weak but amiable and well-intentioned youth, tries to think
that he is passionately fond of music; but he is so exclusive, if you
please, that he can only endure Bach and Beethoven, and when he hears
Mendelssohn or Chopin, is obliged to leave the room. If I want to please
him I whistle "Le Bon Roi Dagobert," and tell him it is the _motif_ of
one of Bach's fugues; and to get rid of him I whistle it again and tell
him it is one of Chopin's impromptus. What his madness is I can never be
quite sure, for he is very close, but have heard that he is fond of
roasting cats alive; and that the mere sight of a cat is enough to rouse
his terrible propensity, and drive all wholesome, innocent, harmless,
natural affectation out of his head.
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