Yet the impression was so strong, that this man, tried by such varied, strange adventures, for a moment felt like retracing his steps.
He only continued his road because a secret, hopeful voice cried in him, “Onward, onward!”—as if, at the end of the journey, was to be found a new life and the long-wished-for good fortune.
As Louis advanced, the changes appeared less striking; he began to be familiar with the ground.
Soon, through the trees, he distinguished the village steeple, then the village itself, built upon the gentle rising of a hill, crowned by a wood of olive-trees.
He recognized the first houses he saw: the farrier’s shed covered with ivy, the old parsonage, and farther on the village tavern, where he and Gaston used to play billiards.
In spite of what he called his scorn of vulgar prejudices, he felt a thrill of strange emotion as he looked on these once familiar objects.
He could not overcome a feeling of sadness as scenes of the past rose up before him.
How many events had occurred since he last walked along this path, and received a friendly bow and smile from every villager.
Then life appeared to him like a fairy scene, in which his every wish was gratified. And now, he had returned, dishonored, worn out, disgusted with the realities of life, still tasting the bitter dregs of the cup of shame, stigmatized, poverty-stricken, and friendless, with nothing to lose, and nothing to look forward to.
The few villagers whom he met turned and stood gazing after this dust-covered stranger, and wondered who he could be.