He found it pleasant to live like this.  And now another spring was nearing to its end.  For how many more years, he wondered. . . .  That confounded funeral. . . .

There was a rustle at his back.  The southerly breeze had struck Nepenthe on its morning ripple over the Tyrrhenian, setting things astir; it searched a passage through those mighty canes which sprouted in a dank hollow where the rains of winter commingled their waters.  The leaves grew vocal with a sound like the splash of a rivulet.  Often had he listened joyfully to that melody which compensated, to some small degree, for the lack of the old Duke’s twenty-four fountains.  Legendary music!  Now it made him sad.  What was its burden?  Midas had asses’ ears.  Midas, the fabled king, whose touch turned everything to gold.  And gold, and jewels—­of what avail were these against the spectre?

The gardeners, moving with bare feet among the sinuous paths, were quick to perceive that a cloud had fallen upon his spirit.  They divined his moods with the tactfulness of natural sympathy.  On some horticultural pretext one of them drew near and craftily engaged his thoughts and conversation.  At last he said something that made him smile.  One or two more appeared upon the scene, as if by accident.  It was evident that the master needed cheering up.  They began to tell him the fairy-tales he loved; tales of robbers and witches and pirates—­grand old tales that never wearied him.  To arouse his interest they joked among themselves, as though unaware of his existence.  One of them, and then another, sang some wild song of love and war which he had picked up while wandering with his flocks among the craggy hills of yonder mainland.  He was laughing now; outdoing their songs and stories.  It kept him young—­to unbend, to play the fool in company such as theirs and relax the fibres stiffened by conventionality; it refreshed him to exchange the ephemeral for the eternal, the tomfoolery of social life for Theocritus and his deathless creatures.  How fair it was, this smiling earth!  How blithely the young voices went aloft!

They failed to drown those other strains, vagrant wraiths that now floated upwards over fields and houses on the tepid wings of the sirocco—­fragmentary snatches, torn from the brazen measure of the municipal band as it marched with the funeral procession.  He cursed the sounds from the bottom of his heart.  They reminded him of that infamous apparition, of all he most ardently desired to forget.  His laughter died down.  Wanly he looked at his mirthful pagans, the embodiment of joys.  Yes; these were his distractions, his playmates, his elixir of life, his antidote against the only disease, the only sin, crime, vice which he recognized on earth—­a vice none the less, because it happened to be the inevitable—­the vice of old age.  And all the time that pallid swarm came crowding on:  messengers from the inexorable spectre.  He felt them creeping about with ghostly tread, blighting the radiance of his life, tainting the very air he breathed.  Hateful intruders!  They wailed among his lilies.  The garden was full of their horrid footsteps.