XIX.
Stranger.
I see, Sir, you are
A smoker. Allow me!
Lord Alfred.
Pray take a cigar.
Stranger.
Many thanks!... Such cigars are a luxury here.
Do you go to Serchon?
Lord Alfred.
Yes; and you?
Stranger.
Yes. I fear,
Since our road is the same, that our journey must be
Somewhat closer than is our acquaintance. You see
How narrow the path is. I'm tempted to ask
Your permission to finish (no difficult task!)
The cigar you have given me (really a prize!)
In your company.
Lord Alfred.
Charm'd, Sir, to find your road lies
In the way of my own inclinations! Indeed
The dream of your nation I find in this weed.
In the distant Savannahs a talisman grows
That makes all men brothers that use it ... who knows?
That blaze which erewhile from the Boulevart outbroke,
It has ended where wisdom begins, Sir,—in smoke.
Messieurs Lopez (whatever your publicists write)
Have done more in their way human kind to unite
Than ten Prudhons perchance.
What a wonderful spot!
This air is delicious; the day was too hot.
Stranger.
Ah, yes! did you chance scarce a half-hour ago
To remark that miraculous sunset?
Lord Alfred.
Why, no.
Stranger.
All the occident, fused in one fierce conflagration,
Stream'd flame: and the hills, as in grim expectation,
Scarr'd and hoary stood round, like severe hierophants
When at some savage rite the red flame breathes and pants
And expands for a victim.
Lord Alfred.
A very old trick!
One would think that the sun by this time must be sick
Of blushing with such a parade of disdain
For this frivolous world he enlightens in vain.
I see you're a poet.
Stranger.
Who is not, alone
In these mountains? For me, though, I own I am none.
Man's life is but short, and the youth of a man
Is yet shorter. I wish to enjoy what I can.
A sunset, if only a sunset be near;
A moon such as this, if the weather be clear;
A good dinner, if hunger come with it; good wine,
If I'm thirsty; a fire, if I'm cold; and, in fine,
If a woman is pretty, to me 'tis no matter,
Be she blonde or brunette, so she lets me look at her.
Lord Alfred.
I suspect that at Serchon, if rumour speak true,
Your choice is not limited.
Stranger.
Yes. One or two
Of our young Paris ladies remain there, but yet
The season is over.
Lord Alfred.
I almost forget
The place; but remember when last I was there,
I thought the best part of it then was the air
And the mountains.
Stranger.
No doubt! all these baths are the same.
One wonders for what upon earth the world came
To seek, under all sorts of difficulties,
The very same things in the far Pyrenees
Which it fled from at Paris. Health, which is, no doubt,
The true object of all, not a soul talks about.
'Tis a sort of religion.
Lord Alfred.
You know the place well?
Stranger.
I have been there two seasons.
Lord Alfred.
Pray who is the Belle
Of the Baths at this moment?
Stranger.
The same who has been
The belle of all places in which she is seen;
The belle of all Paris last winter; last spring
The belle of all Baden.
Lord Alfred.
An uncommon thing!
Stranger.
Sir, an uncommon beauty!... I rather should say,
An uncommon character. Truly, each day
One meets women whose beauty is equal to hers,
But none with the charm of Lucile de Nevers.
Lord Alfred.
Madame de Nevers!
Stranger.
Do you know her?
Lord Alfred.
I know,
Or, rather, I knew her,—a long time ago.
I almost forget....
Stranger.
What a wit! what a grace
In her language! her movements! what play in her face!
And yet what a sadness she seems to conceal!
Lord Alfred.
You speak like a lover.
Stranger.
I speak as I feel,
But not like a lover. What interests me so
In Lucile, at the same time forbids me, I know,
To give to that interest, whate'er the sensation,
The name we men give to an hour's admiration,
A night's passing passion, an actress's eyes,
A dancing girl's ankles, a fine lady's sighs.
Lord Alfred.
Yes, I quite comprehend. But this sadness—this shade
Which you speak of? ... it almost would make me afraid
Your gay countrymen, Sir, less adroit must have grown,
Since when, as a stripling, at Paris, I own
I found in them terrible rivals,—if yet
They have all lack'd the skill to console this regret
(If regret be the word I should use), or fulfil
This desire (if desire be the word), which seems still
To endure unappeased. For I take it for granted,
From all that you say, that the will was not wanted.
