"Go to Paris. It is my dream to go there. Ah! if I were rich and free like you, I would start this very night."
"Paris! Thanks for the advice. No! anywhere rather than there! Paris is the ruin of France! Paris is the birthplace of the evils of which we are all dying! The Revolution, the Empire, the war, the Commune, all came from Paris! Paris has killed France! Curse it!"
"Softly, softly, Papa Vincent," replied Sabatier; "do not fly into such a passion. Whatever you may say, Paris is the finest town in the world. Paris has its vices, I admit; but its brilliant qualities make it the capital of civilization."
"Pray, spare me your Victor Hugo phrases! Yes, Paris is verily the most civilized town in the world, if by civilization you mean the reverse of all that is natural and true. Shall I tell you what you, a provincial stranger, will find in Paris? The first tailors and the first shoemakers in the world; the best hairdressers and fencing-masters; the greatest coquettes and the most profligate women; the most cheating hotel-keepers, the most selfish politicians, and the most wonderful actors. That is all that you, as a stranger, will see; as to the Paris of work and self-denial, it will be hidden from you. The honest folks of Paris — and, thank Heaven! there are some left — do not frequent the places where you go to seek excitement and see sights. Busy with their work, and ashamed of the enervating pleasures that strangers rush to so greedily, they know how to respect their mourning country. Their houses would be closed to you, nor would they be thrown open to me. No, no, I will not go to Paris. Lunel is a dull town, I confess; I am weary of the life I lead here; it weighs me down, and I long to have done with it: still, I prefer it to life in Paris."
He paused for a minute and bent his head as if he were absorbed in painful reflections, then he resumed slowly in a low voice, as though he were speaking to himself, "Ay, indeed, life in Lunel is dull and colorless, … life in Paris is repugnant to me. … Life is unbearable everywhere in France. … Formerly it was not so, and life then had an object; men lived, men died at least for something. But what can I do now? Fold my arms, and impotently witness the ruin of my country. … All is going, perishing, falling to pieces, … and I am but a weak old man."
A long silence followed, which Sabatier dared not break till the two friends reached the banker's door.
"Monsieur Vincent," Sabatier then said, in a respectful tone, "I wish you gocd-night; try and sleep well."
"Good-night, my dear René," said the old man. He was holding the door still ajar, when he suddenly turned round and said abruptly to the young man, —
"How old are you?"
"I am four-and-twenty."
"Well, follow the advice of an old bachelor: marry. A life full of cares is better than a life which is utterly void. Woe to the man who is alone in the world! … Take a wife. … Man was not made to live alone. … Solitude begets unwholesome thoughts. … Goodnight, Sabatier!"
The next day Vincent appeared at the usual hour at the café of the esplanade, and in a few minutes he was seated opposite to Sabatier, apparently absorbed in the intricacies of a game of piquet.
"You have just thrown away ninety," remarked Sabatier.
"Have I?" said Vincent. He took up the cards he had discarded, looked at them and said quietly, "You are right; here's my knave of clubs."
There was another deal.
"Why, what is the matter with you today?" cried Sabatier, "You have not reckoned your quint."
"You are right again, young man," said the banker: "I had forgotten it. I do not know what I am thinking of." So saying he pushed away the cards.
"Go and play with Coulé," he added; "it amuses me no longer."
He got up and placed himself near another table where two other men were playing. Old Vidal came up and proposed a game of bezique. Vincent assented willingly, and they seated themselves at a vacant table. Vincent won the game.
"Bezique is child's play," he said; "I prefer piquet." He got up and apologized for not going on. "I will give you your revenge to-morrow," he said. He remained half an hour longer in the club-room, going from one group to another, and exchanging a few brief sentences with his friends; but he went home somewhat earlier than usual. No sooner had he left the room than every one began to talk about him.
"Old Vincent looks very ill. What is the matter with him?"
"He did not know his cards, and threw out his best I never saw him like that."
