So it came to pass that I abandoned, once and for all, inflammatory politics, even as one casts off a burden on the road in order to walk more lightly, and from henceforth I gave myself up entirely to my country and my art—my Provence, from whom I had never received aught but pure joy.
One evening, about this time, withdrawn in contemplation, roaming in quest of my rhymes,—for I have always found my verses by the highways and byways—I met an old man tending his sheep. It was the worthy Jean, a character well known to me. The sky was covered with stars, the screech-owl hooted, and the following dialogue took place:
“You have wandered far, Mister Frédéric,” began the shepherd.
“I am taking a little air, Master Jean,” I answered.
“You are going for a turn among the stars?”
“Master Jean, you have said it. I am so heartily sick, disillusioned and disheartened with the things of earth, that I wish to-night to ascend and lose myself in the kingdom of the stars.”
“Well, I myself,” said he, “make an excursion there nearly every night, and I assure you the journey is one of the most beautiful.”
“But how does one manage to find one’s way in that unfathomable depth of light?”
“If you would like to follow me, sir, while the sheep eat, I will guide you gently and show you all.”
“Worthy Jean, I take you at your word,” I readily agreed.