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 be