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The first time that I caught a glimpse, between the two rows of oak trees, of the chateau of the Sleeping Woods, I thought of a scene at the opera.
Twelve years ago, on my return from Italy, I had passed the place in an automobile. The road maps were none too good, and I had lost my way. The road plunges down into the valley with many sharp turns. It was in the early days of the new mode of locomotion and I was in the habit of committing many imprudent acts. Nevertheless I was obliged to slow down, and then, fascinated by the beauty of this forgotten nook, made golden by the Autumn, as it is to-day with the light falling on the last of the leaves, I stopped my car.
To stop was, and is still, for me to experience unusual sensations.
Ordinarily my impressions of landscapes are swiftly gathered. My eye is trained to seize them at a glance, just as the snapping of the shutter of a camera is sufficient to secure an instantaneous photograph. I had never been able to stop for more than a minute or two. But now, I had a sudden impulse to stop entirely.
On the gate, which was open and sprung,—I have not wished ever to repair it—hung a sign announcing that the property was for sale. Immediately I determined to purchase it.
At that time I was twenty-five years old; all I knew of life was the intoxication of youth and strength. I was indeed one of those merciless rulers of the upper classes who do not tolerate restraint from law or men while they have, or think they have, the means of escaping it. I had at my disposal a fortune whose extent I did not measure; my whim was my guide, and I recognised no obstacle. Who would have been able to convince me that there were limits to my wishes? The friends whom I favoured or neglected at will were flatterers and parasites whom one picked up in abundance in the resorts of pleasure. If the women that I selected did not treat me with cruelty, the very nature of their choice would have prevented me from deriving any pride from it, if it had not been for the ridiculous admiration that I openly professed for myself. Crude and headstrong, what a foolish creature a young man is before he has been flayed by the plane of suffering, of compelling ambition or by love!
The chateau pleased me. Therefore I coveted the property at once. I could scarcely conceive of beauty without possession, and immediate possession.
As I approached the lodge a young girl was leaving it. She wore no hat and her beautiful hair covered her shoulders. A lock or two had blown out of place and gleamed like pure gold in the sunlight. But I thought her neither pretty nor ugly. I had noticed at once that she was only a slight, unformed girl, fourteen or fifteen years old at the most, an age which did not interest me.
“Here, little girl,” I called to her, as if I were speaking to a servant.