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.