ard 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