The pathway ascended steeply through the woods, bordered with datura and geranium, which were still blossoming gaily; here and there was a wooden bench, a majolica seat, a little statue; the ground was of shining shingle; it had been kept in perfect order, awaiting its owner, for ten years. After about a quarter of a mile it ended on a level space of the red rock up which it had climbed. Here had been laid out a fairy-like and fantastic garden, lawns, palms, fountains, walls of shrubs, and groves of camellias and azaleas, spreading before a château, which was, in architecture, a miniature Maintenon, and in position stood high enough to look over the sea in front of it.
‘What a delicious place!’ said Nadine; ‘and in a month or two, when all those azaleas flower—if I had known you had owned such a bijou, I would have told you to lend it to us. It makes La Jacquemerille a mere trumpery toy.’
‘I would lend you nothing,’ said Othmar, in her ear; ‘I would have given you everything—once.’
Then he added aloud, ‘This is somewhat trumpery also, I fear; modern things are so apt to have that look. They are like the articles de Paris, which cost enormously, but are only plush and ormolu after all. However, Viollet le Duc built this house; so it may be a little better than its neighbours. Only I should like statelier and simpler gardens myself; I should like high box hedges and old-fashioned plants. But I suppose they would not go with the Mediterranean.’
‘You like anything simple and homely; you will have to marry Margot, or Phœbe, or Grethel, off a farm,’ said the Princess, with some contempt. She was a hothouse flower herself, and despised thyme and dog-roses.
‘I might do worse,’ said Othmar, as he ushered them into the house, which contained some wonderful china, some admirable modern pictures, some fine statuary, and more French luxury than its master cared to have surround him.
‘It is exquisite,’ said the Princess, after wandering through it, and returning to a room opening on the gardens; a room hung with tawny plush, embroidered with white roses and blue irises. The chairs and couches matched the walls, a gilt cornice ran round the oval ceiling, which was painted in tempera with the story of Undine. ‘How many more houses have you, Othmar, standing like so many open empty caskets waiting for you to put the jewel of life into them? Really, how many have you? Come, tell me!’
‘I have too many,’ said Othmar. ‘But excess always carries its own retribution; amongst them all I have no home; none that I feel home-like. I can imagine what it is—a chez soi that one cares about and desires to return to—but I do not possess it.’
‘Make it,’ said Melville; ‘that is always in the power of every man who is not a priest.’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Othmar. ‘But it has never seemed very easy to me. The fire of the hearth is like the coal from the altar: it comes from heaven, and can scarcely be commanded.’