He was about to return home, when the thought of his great bare room, his footman sleeping in the anteroom, the water singing on the gas stove in his dressing-room, and the enormous bed, as old and gloomy as a deathbed, suddenly struck him with a chill even more acute than that of the frosty air.
For some years he had felt the burden of loneliness which sometimes overwhelms old bachelors. He had been strong, active and cheerful, spending his days in sport, and his evenings at social functions. Now, he was growing dull, and no longer took interest in anything. All sport tired him, suppers and even dinners made him ill, while women bored him as much as they had once amused him.
The monotony of such evenings, of the same friends met in the same place—at the club—the same card parties with their run of good and bad luck evenly balanced, the same conversation on the same topics, the same wit from the same tongues, the same jokes on the same subjects, the same scandal about the same women, all sickened him so much that there were times when he thought seriously of suicide. He could no longer face this regular, aimless and commonplace life, both frivolous and dull, and, without knowing why, he longed for peace, rest and comfort.
He had certainly never thought of marrying, he lacked the courage to face a life of depression, conjugal slavery, and that hateful coexistence of two human beings who know each other so well that every word uttered by one is anticipated by the other and every thought, wish or opinion is immediately divined. He considered that a woman was only worth attention so long as one knew very little about her, while she was still mysterious and unfathomed, vague and perplexing. Therefore what he wanted was family life without the tyranny of family ties, although he was continually haunted by the memory of his son.
For the last year he had always been thinking about him, and felt an irritating longing to see him and make his acquaintance. The affair had taken place while he was a young man, in an atmosphere of romance and affection. The child was sent to the South of France, and brought up near Marseilles, without knowing his father’s name. His father had paid for his upbringing, alike in his infancy, in his schooldays and in the activities that followed, ending up with a substantial settlement on a suitable marriage. A trustworthy lawyer had acted as intermediary without giving away the secret.
Baron Mordiane, then, only knew that a child of his was living somewhere near Marseilles, that he had a reputation for being intelligent and well educated, and that he had married the daughter of an architect and surveyor, whom he succeeded in the business. He was also said to be making money.
Why should he not go and see this unknown son, without disclosing his identity, in order to study him at first hand and see whether, in case of need, he might find a welcome refuge in his home?
He had always treated him liberally, and had made a generous settlement, which had been gratefully received. He was therefore sure of not coming into conflict with an unreasonable pride, and the idea of leaving for the South had now become an oft-recurring desire which was making him restless. He was also urged by a curious feeling of self-pity, at the thought of that cheerful and comfortable home on the coast where he would find his charming young daughter-in-law, his grandchildren ready to welcome him, and his son; all this would remind him of that brief and happy love affair so many years ago. His only regret was his past generosity, which had assisted the young man on the road to prosperity, and would prevent him from appearing amongst them as a benefactor. With these thoughts running through his mind he walked along, his head buried deep in his fur collar: his decision was quickly made. Hailing a passing cab, he drove home, and said to his valet, aroused from his sleep to open the door:
“Louis, we are leaving for Marseilles tomorrow evening. We shall be there perhaps a fortnight. Make all preparations for the journey.”
The train sped along the sandy banks of the Rhône, then over yellow plains and through village—a country with gaunt encircling mountains in the distance.
Baron Mordiane, awakened after a night in the sleeping-car, gloomily contemplated his reflection in the little mirror in his dressing-case. The crude light of the South showed up wrinkles he had never seen before, and revealed a state of decrepitude that had passed unnoticed in the shaded light of Parisian flats. Looking at the corners of his eyes, the wrinkled eyelids, bald temples and forehead, he said to himself:
“Good heavens, I am worse than faded: I look worn out!”
His desire for peace suddenly increased, and for the first time in his life, he was conscious of a vague longing to take his grandchildren on his knee.
He hired a carriage in Marseilles and about one o’clock in the afternoon he stopped before a dazzling white country-house typical of the South of France, standing at the end of an avenue of plane-trees. He beamed with pleasure as he went along the avenue and said to himself:
“It’s damned nice.”
Suddenly a youngster of about five or six rushed from behind the shrubs and stood motionless at the end of the drive, gazing round-eyed at the visitor. Mordiane approached and said to him:
“Good afternoon, my boy!”
The youngster made no reply.
The baron then stooped and picked him up to kiss him, but so strong was the odour of garlic coming from the child that he quickly put him down again, murmuring: “Oh! he must be the gardener’s son.” And he went on toward the house.
On
