I began by making an excursion into Italy. The sunshine did me much
good. For six months I wandered about from Genoa to Venice, from Venice
to Florence, from Florence to Rome, from Rome to Naples. Then I
traveled over Sicily, a country celebrated for its scenery and its
monuments, relics left by the Greeks and the Normans. Passing over into
Africa, I traversed at my ease that immense desert, yellow and
tranquil, in which camels, gazelles, and Arab vagabonds roam
about--where, in the rare and transparent atmosphere, there hover no
vague hauntings, where there is never any night, but always day.
I returned to France by Marseilles, and in spite of all its Provencal
gaiety, the diminished clearness of the sky made me sad. I experienced,
in returning to the Continent, the peculiar sensation of an illness
which I believed had been cured, and a dull pain which predicted that
the seeds of the disease had not been eradicated.
I then returned to Paris. At the end of a month I was very dejected. It
was in the autumn, and I determined to make, before winter came, an
excursion through Normandy, a country with which I was unacquainted.
I began my journey, in the best of spirits, at Rouen, and for eight
days I wandered about, passive, ravished, and enthusiastic, in that
ancient city, that astonishing museum of extraordinary Gothic monuments.
But one afternoon, about four o'clock, as I was sauntering slowly
through a seemingly unattractive street, by which there ran a stream as
black as the ink called "Eau de Robec," my attention, fixed for the
moment on the quaint, antique appearance of some of the houses, was
suddenly attracted by the view of a series of second-hand furniture
shops, which followed one another, door after door.
Ah! they had carefully chosen their locality, these sordid traffickers
in antiquities, in that quaint little street, overlooking the sinister
stream of water, under those tile and slate-pointed roofs on which
still grinned the vanes of bygone days.
At the end of these grim storehouses you saw piled up sculptured
chests, Rouen, Sevres, and Moustier's pottery, painted statues, others
of oak, Christs, Virgins, Saints, church ornaments, chasubles, capes,
even sacred vases, and an old gilded wooden tabernacle, where a god had
hidden himself away. What singular caverns there are in those lofty
houses, crowded with objects of every description, where the existence
of things seems to be ended, things which have survived their original
possessors, their century, their times, their fashions, in order to be
bought as curiosities by new generations.
My affection for antiques was awakened in that city of antiquaries. I
went from shop to shop, crossing in two strides the rotten four plank
bridges thrown over the nauseous current of the "Eau de Robec."
Heaven protect me! What a shock! At the end of a vault, which was
crowded with articles of every description and which seemed to be the
entrance to the catacombs of a cemetery of ancient furniture, I
suddenly descried one of my most beautiful wardrobes. I approached it,
trembling in every limb, trembling to such an extent that I dared not
touch it, I put forth my hand, I hesitated. Nevertheless it was indeed
my wardrobe; a unique wardrobe of the time of Louis XIII., recognizable
by anyone who had seen it only once. Casting my eyes suddenly a little
farther, toward the more somber depths of the gallery, I perceived
three of my tapestry covered chairs; and farther on still, my two Henry
II. tables, such rare treasures that people came all the way from Paris
to see them.
Think! only think in what a state of mind I now was! I advanced,
haltingly, quivering with emotion, but I advanced, for I am brave--I
advanced like a knight of the dark ages.
At every step I found something that belonged to me; my brushes, my
books, my tables, my silks, my arms, everything, except the bureau full
of my letters, and that I could not discover.
I walked on, descending to the dark galleries, in order to ascend next
to the floors above. I was alone; I called out, nobody answered, I was
alone; there was no one in that house--a house as vast and tortuous as
a labyrinth.
Night came on, and I was compelled to sit down in the darkness on one
of my own chairs, for I had no desire to go away. From time to time I
shouted, "Hallo, hallo, somebody."
I had sat there, certainly, for more than an hour when I heard steps,
steps soft and slow, I knew not where. I was unable to locate them, but
bracing myself up, I called out anew, whereupon I perceived a glimmer
of light in the next chamber.
"Who is there?" said a voice.
"A buyer," I responded.
"It is too late to enter thus into a shop."
"I have been waiting for you for more than an hour," I answered.
"You can come back to-morrow."
"To-morrow I must quit Rouen."
I dared not advance, and he did not come to me. I saw always the
glimmer of his light, which was shining on a tapestry on which were two
angels flying over the dead on a field of battle. It belonged to me
also. I said:
"Well, come here."
"I am at your service," he answered.