Then we went into the office to look over the deeds.  The close air of this place of dry, hard business, those long rows of boxes, the files of bills—­all these together put weak notions of love out of my head.  I sat down in an arm-chair while Monsieur Becker, collecting his thoughts, puts his horn spectacles in their place upon his long, sharp nose.

“These deeds relate to your meadow-land at Eichmatt.  There, Monsieur Haas, you have a hundred acres of excellent land, the finest and best-watered in the commune; two and even three crops a year are got off that land.  It brings in four thousand francs a year.  Here are the deeds belonging to your vine-growing land at Sonnenthal, thirty-five acres in all.  One year with another you may get from this two hundred hectolitres (4,400 gals.) of light wine, sold on the ground at twelve or fifteen francs the hectolitre.  Good years make up for the bad.  This, Monsieur Haas, is your title to the forest of Romelstein, containing fifty or sixty hectares (a hectare is 2-1/2 acres) of excellent timber.  This is your property at Hacmatt; this your pasture-land at Tiefenthal.  This is your farm at Grueneswald, and here is the deed belonging to your house at Lauterbach; it is the largest house in the place, and was built in the sixteenth century.”

“Indeed, Monsieur Becker! but is that saying much in its favour?”

“Certainly, certainly.  It was built by Jean Burckhardt, Count of Barth, for a hunting-box.  Many generations have lived in it since then, but it has never been neglected, and it is now in excellent repair.”

I thanked Monsieur Becker for the information he had given me, and having secured all my title-deeds in a large portfolio which he was good enough to lend me, I took my leave, more full than ever of my vast importance!

Arriving before my house, I enjoyed introducing the key into the lock of the door, and bringing down my foot firmly and proudly on the first step.

“This is all mine!” I cried enthusiastically.

I enter the hall—­“Mine!” I open the wardrobes—­“Mine!” Mine—­all that linen piled up to the top!  I pace majestically up the broad staircase, repeating like a fool, “This is mine, and that is mine!  Here I am, owner of all this!  No more uneasiness about the future!  Not an anxious thought for the morrow!  Now I am going to make a figure in the world!—­not on the weak ground of merit—­not for anything that fashion can alter.  I am a great man because I hold really and effectually that which the world covets.

“Ye poets and artists! what are you in comparison with the rich proprietor who has everything he wants, and who feeds your inspiration with the crumbs that fall from his table?  What are you but ornamental portions of his feasts and banquets, just to fill up a weary interval?  You are no more than the sparrow that warbles in his hedges, or the statue that figures in his garden-walk.  It is by him and for him that you exist.  What need has he to envy you the incense of pride and vanity—­he who possesses the only solid good this world has to offer?”