I can tell you neither the name of the country, nor the name of the man.
It was a long, long way from here on a fertile and burning shore. We had
been walking since the morning along the coast, with the blue sea bathed
in sunlight on one side of us, and the shore covered with crops on
the other. Flowers were growing quite close to the waves, those light,
gentle, lulling waves. It was very warm, a soft warmth permeated with
the odor of the rich, damp, fertile soil. One fancied one was inhaling
germs.
I had been told, that evening, that I should meet with hospitality at
the house of a Frenchman who lived in an orange grove at the end of a
promontory. Who was he? I did not know. He had come there one morning
ten years before, and had bought land which he planted with vines and
sowed with grain. He had worked, this man, with passionate energy, with
fury. Then as he went on from month to month, year to year, enlarging
his boundaries, cultivating incessantly the strong virgin soil, he
accumulated a fortune by his indefatigable labor.
But he kept on working, they said. Rising at daybreak, he would remain
in the fields till evening, superintending everything without ceasing,
tormented by one fixed idea, the insatiable desire for money, which
nothing can quiet, nothing satisfy. He now appeared to be very rich. The
sun was setting as I reached his house. It was situated as described, at
the end of a promontory in the midst of a grove of orange trees. It
was a large square house, quite plain, and overlooked the sea. As I
approached, a man wearing a long beard appeared in the doorway. Having
greeted him, I asked if he would give me shelter for the night. He held
out his hand and said, smiling:
“Come in, monsieur, consider yourself at home.”
He led me into a room, and put a man servant at my disposal with the
perfect ease and familiar graciousness of a man-of-the-world. Then he
left me saying:
“We will dine as soon as you are ready to come downstairs.”
We took dinner, sitting opposite each other, on a terrace facing the
sea. I began to talk about this rich, distant, unknown land. He smiled,
as he replied carelessly:
“Yes, this country is beautiful. But no country satisfies one when they
are far from the one they love.”
“You regret France?”
“I regret Paris.”
“Why do you not go back?”
“Oh, I will return there.”
And gradually we began to talk of French society, of the boulevards,
and things Parisian. He asked me questions that showed he knew all about
these things, mentioned names, all the familiar names in vaudeville
known on the sidewalks.
“Whom does one see at Tortoni's now?
“Always the same crowd, except those who died.” I looked at him
attentively, haunted by a vague recollection. I certainly had seen that
head somewhere. But where? And when? He seemed tired, although he was
vigorous; and sad, although he was determined. His long, fair beard fell
on his chest. He was somewhat bald and had heavy eyebrows and a thick
mustache.
The sun was sinking into the sea, turning the vapor from the earth into
a fiery mist. The orange blossoms exhaled their powerful, delicious
fragrance. He seemed to see nothing besides me, and gazing steadfastly
he appeared to discover in the depths of my mind the far-away, beloved
and well-known image of the wide, shady pavement leading from the
Madeleine to the Rue Drouot.
“Do you know Boutrelle?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Has he changed much?”
“Yes, his hair is quite white.”
“And La Ridamie?”
“The same as ever.”
“And the women? Tell me about the women. Let's see. Do you know Suzanne
Verner?”
“Yes, very much. But that is over.”
“Ah! And Sophie Astier?”
“Dead.”
“Poor girl. Did you--did you know--”
But he ceased abruptly: And then, in a changed voice, his face suddenly
turning pale, he continued:
“No, it is best that I should not speak of that any more, it breaks my
heart.”
Then, as if to change the current of his thoughts he rose.
“Would you like to go in?” he said.
“Yes, I think so.”
And he preceded me into the house. The downstairs rooms were enormous,
bare and mournful, and had a deserted look. Plates and glasses were
scattered on the tables, left there by the dark-skinned servants who
wandered incessantly about this spacious dwelling.
Two rifles were banging from two nails, on the wall; and in the corners
of the rooms were spades, fishing poles, dried palm leaves, every
imaginable thing set down at random when people came home in the evening
and ready to hand when they went out at any time, or went to work.
My host smiled as he said:
“This is the dwelling, or rather the kennel, of an exile, but my own
room is cleaner. Let us go there.”
As I entered I thought I was in a second-hand store, it was so full of
things of all descriptions, strange things of various kinds that one
felt must be souvenirs. On the walls were two pretty paintings by
well-known artists, draperies, weapons, swords and pistols, and exactly
in the middle, on the principal panel, a square of white satin in a gold
frame.
Somewhat surprised, I approached to look at it, and perceived a hairpin
fastened in the centre of the glossy satin. My host placed his hand on
my shoulder.
“That,” said he, “is the only thing that I look at here, and the only
thing that I have seen for ten years. M. Prudhomme said: 'This sword is
the most memorable day of my life.' I can say: 'This hairpin is all my
life.'”