Fifine turned to me.
“Would you like, Felix?”
“No,” I answered shortly. “I don’t fancy a poet for a neighbour. He would talk in his sleep. It will do very well as it stands.”
I left her to her toilette, while I descended with the landlord. There was a small smoking-room off the salle-à-manger, and we sat there and talked together over a bottle of wine. The man was new to me, and, comparatively, to the place; and the one fault I had to find with him was that he was a modern product, and as such anxious to popularise his position. Still, if that ambition spurred him to no worse than he had already effected, it gave one small ground for complaint. Trim comfort and fresh white sheets were by no means regrettable innovations in les Baux.
“This M. Cabarus,” I said presently, “is a great man with you, I suppose?”
He laughed a little—actually. He was not born Provençal, you see; and his reverence for its traditions was a matter of policy.
“He brings custom, Monsieur,” he said. “Yes, he is a very important man to me.”
“Does he often visit here?”
“I should think, Monsieur, there is no one individual more constant. The hills inspire him, it is there he most seeks his beautiful chimeras; he knows every foot of them; he is out on them now. You are familiar with them yourself, perhaps—the Roman Camp, the Val d’Enfer, the Château above us? You should take Mademoiselle up to the Camp opposite. It is there one obtains one’s finest view of the ruins.”
“Ah, yes! I will take her, maybe; but it is a long climb for her, and I do not know the way very well. These chimeras, then—what are they?”