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: